UNDER 
THE  ROSE 


ARTHUR 
JOHNSON 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 


By 
ARTHUR  JOHNSON 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

Publishers 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 


Copyright;  1930,  by  Harper  &  Brother* 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September.  1020 

G-U 


To 
CLARENCE  DAY,  JR. 

In  token  of  all  I  would  express 


2136527 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 1 

II.  RIDERS  IN  THE   DARK 54 

III.  THE    ONE    HUNDRED    EIGHTIETH    ME- 

RIDIAN    115 

IV.  MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 138 

V.  THE  TWO  LOVERS 183 

VI.  THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 203 

VII.  THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 237 

VIII.  HIS  NEW  MORTAL  COIL 270 

IX.  HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN  303 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 


THERE  were  so  many  dinner  guests,  and 
I  knew  so  few  of  them,  that  the  ap- 
pearance of  almost  any  acquaintance  upon 
the  scene  as  we  took  our  ticketed  places 
might  have  stuck  out  unduly.  But  to  see 
him  there,  of  all  persons! 

I  had  just  got  back  to  Washington  from 
overseas.  I  had  barely  had  time  to  hear  the 
news  of  his  downfall.  I  had  been  to  our 
"apartment,**  and  found  it  sublet,  and  his 
whereabouts  wanting.  And  the  sight  of 
him  nearly  opposite  across  the  table  com- 
pletely "got"  me.  He  looked  so  much  older 
and  scrawnier  and  paler,  too,  than  I  had  ever 
seen  him — say  nothing  of  his  having  looked  so 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

much  less  scrawny,  less  pale,  and  less  old  than 
I  had  ever  seen  him  when  I  went  away. 

He  was  seated,  moreoever,  right  beside 
the  most  beautiful  woman  within  eyeshot. 
Who  was  she?  What  was  it,  what  had  it 
been,  on  the  peak  of  his  pomp  and  power, 
that  women  saw  in  Icarus  Brown?  Women 
younger,  decades  younger  than  he  was !  Nor 
was  he  paying,  in  spite  of  her  pains,  more 
than  half-hearted  attention  to  this  one,  either. 

I  remarked  shamelessly  to  the  secretary's 
wife  on  my  left,  a  bepearled  Ohio  blonde 
who,  I  believed,  enjoyed  the  reputation  of 
being  "the  person  who  entertained  for  the 
Administration,"  that  I  supposed  Icarus 
Brown  would  be  going  back  home  pretty 
soon  to  Moana,  Minn.  But  she  only 
monstrously  intimated  that  she  hadn't  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  him  I  referred  to.  Vic- 
tim of  shifting  fashions!  Having  seen  her 
invitations  cluttering  his  bureau  and  waste- 
paper  basket  in  the  old  days,  I  was  too  at 
a  loss  to  press  my  point  further,  and  had, 
as  a  penalty  for  broaching  it,  to  talk  in- 
terestingly about  all  manner  of  things  I 
wasn't  the  least  interested  in. 

When  the  tide  turned,  however,  and  I 
swung  to  the  lady  on  my  left — a  retired 

2 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

admiral's  wife  who  had  "taken  up"  philos- 
ophy, if  I  remember — I  ventured  the  same 
remark  to  her,  and  she  very  sweetly,  very 
simply  vouchsafed  that,  as  Icarus  Brown  was 
undoubtedly  to  go  thither  so  soon,  and  as  our 
hostess  was  an  aunt  of  the  Princess  of  Tork, 
she  very  likely  had  resurrected  him  for  this 
once  to  alleviate  all  scandal. 

"  You  see — no,  you  can't  see.  She's  too 
far  down  on  our  side — " 

Whoever  it  was  I  wasn't  to  be  able  to 
see  I  forgot  in  the  general  conversation, 
which  grew  rife  at  that  moment.  Every- 
body was  chiming  in  about  whether  or  not 
a  certain  incomparable  and  dethroned  pro- 
tagonist would  "  ever  come  back." 

"  Oh  yes — yes,  he  will  come  back! "  ladies 
were  chirruping  right  and  left,  without 
thinking  what  they  were  chirruping,  and, 
"  He  won't — he  won't  come  back,  he  can't!  " 
the  men  were  declaring  less  genially  in  be- 
tween— when  my  eye  fell  again  on  Icarus 
Brown's  companion.  She  was  leaning  tow- 
ard him  provokingly.  I  distinctly  heard  her, 
athwart  the  melee,  say  in  a  deep,  droning 
voice  into  his  ear: 

"  No.  He  won't  come  back.  People — 
never — do — come — back.  Do  they?  " 

3 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Instantly  he  peered  forth  and  around,  with 
a  stealthy  look  of  fear,  as  if  haunted  all  at 
once  by  some  guilty  sense  of  shortcoming; 
and  I  lowered  my  eyes  to  my  plate.  When 
I  raised  them  again  he  seemed  to  have  re- 
sumed his  eating,  doggedly,  but  she  was  look- 
ing at  me,  I  felt  sure,  intuitively.  At  any 
rate  she  smiled. 

That  was  why  I  was  the  first  person  from 
the  smoking-room  to  rejoin  the  ladies.  I  re- 
mained in  the  smoking-room,  in  fact,  just 
long  enough  to  try  to  speak  to  Icarus  and  to 
have  him  acknowledge  this  effort  with  only 
the  merest  inquiry  as  to  my  recent  voyage, 
and  to  see  him  after  that  turn  away  and  sit 
down  and  pull  his  chair  nearer  the  vortex 
of  conversation,  which  he  began  attempt- 
ing in  his  same  old  hypothetical  way — but 
without  a  relic  of  his  former  factitious 
ability — to  lead. 

"Well,  just  what  was  the  matter  with 
President  Taft's  administration?  Can  any- 
body here  put  his  finger  on  exactly  what  was 
the  matter  with  President  Taft's  administra- 
tion? "  he  was  saying. 

He  had  fallen  embarrassingly  low.  It 
was  an  excellent  moment  for  me  to  shift  the 
scene. 

4 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

I  entered  upon  the  room  where  the  ladies 
awaited  so  suddenly  that  I  caught  them  in 
the  act  of  getting  ready.  You  know  how  at 
the  first  sound  of  a  man  on  the  stairs,  in  the 
hall,  they  disband  and  flutter  severally  to 
empty  settees  or  seek  to  find  a  chair  with  an 
ottoman,  say,  handy  beside  it,  or  even  a  lone 
chair  by  the  fire  where  some  nice  man  is 
likely  to  stand?  You  can  pick  out  a  "belle  " 
by  picking  a  lady  who  hasn't  bothered  to 
budge,  I  was  thinking,  when  I  saw  the  one 
I  had  come  for  still  knitting  steadfastly  in  a 
corner  whence  all  the  more  anxious  had  fled. 
But  I  didn't  need  that  reassurance  to  hasten 
to  her  side  and  dig  myself  in  there 
impregnably. 

"I'm  an  old  friend  of  Icarus  Brown's,"  I 
began,  boldly.  "He  used  to  be  a  friend  of 
mine.  And  I  want  awfully  to  ask  somebody 
— you  if  you  don't  mind  (I  suppose  I'm  the 
only  person  in  Washington  who  hasn't  had 
opportunity  to  form  an  opinion)  —  why 
the  Princess  of  Tork  did  what  she  did  to 
him?" 

"'Used  to  be,'  you  say,"  she  unhesitat- 
ingly responded.  "What  did  you  do  to 
him?  " 

"Nothing  intentionally.    We  parted  on 
s 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

the  best  of  terms.  He  talked  to  me  that  last 
night  unreservedly." 

"How  long  ago?" 

"Six  months  or  more.  It  was  the  end  of 
April,  to  be  exact." 

"Perhaps  he  told  you  too  much!" 

"No.  He  didn't  tell  me  anything.  It 
was  only  about —  You  can  surely  imagine, 
knowing  him  as  I've  seen  you  do,  the  sort  of 
problem  he'd  choose  to  bother  over." 

"  There  wasn't  much,  after  all,  to  tell  then, 
probably.  And  there  isn't  much  now.  It's 
not,  as  far  as  I've  heard,  a  dramatic  story. 
What  makes  you  so  curious?  The  little  I 
have  I  got  from — Tina.  I  only  know  her  side, 
you  see!" 

We  laughed  together  over  our  zest  for  the 
subject.  Apparently  she  was  as  much  elated 
as  I  at  the  turn  my  deliberate  and  unspon- 
sored  quest  of  her  had  taken.  Though  she 
exceeded  already  my  wildest  hopes.  She 
was  so,  so  fragrant  and  understanding,  like  a 
very  soignee  fairy  godmother — the  sort  of 
fairy  godmother  you'd  fall  in  love  with. 
You  felt  she  took  for  granted  that  anything, 
everything,  could  unexceptionably  be  gone 
into  between  us,  if  we  were  only  genuinely 
interested. 

6 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

II 

I  had  known,  I  proceeded  to  explain,  Icarus 
Brown  for  a  long  time.  Intermittently. 
Never  very  well.  And  he  was  the  last  per- 
son I  expected  to  come  across  in  Washington 
that  first  year  of  the  war.  Though  one  did 
stumble  on  the  strangest  acquaintances — 
butchers,  bakers  and —  I  recalled  meeting 
an  effete,  namby-pamby  fellow  I  hadn't  seen 
since  college,  who,  if  you  can  believe  it,  had 
been  commissioned  because  and  solely  be- 
cause of  his  inveterate  proclivity  to  amateur 
theatricals!  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  real- 
ized, had  it  occurred  to  me  to  think  of  Icarus 
at  all,  that  he  would  have  been  among  the 
earliest  to  hie  themselves  hither.  Being  a 
bachelor,  a  bachelor  who  had  yearned  so 
for  Europe  in  Moana,  Minn.,  with  only 
civic  pride  to  restrain  him,  Washington  was 
naturally,  in  view  of  his  age,  the  one  irresist- 
ible war-Mecca  to  tempt  him. 

He  hadn't  any  uniform.  He  hadn't  even 
a  place  to  stay.  And  hotels  were  so  expen- 
sive, he  complained — as  if  the  idea  had  never 
occurred  to  man  before!  So  I  offered  him  a 
cot -bed  in  my  single-room  suite,  whence  he 
sallied  forth  at  an  ungodly  hour  each  morning 

2  7 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

in  search  of  something  important  to  do  for  his 
country.  He  found  what  he  was  in  search  of 
eventually.  It  was  an  office-manager's  job 
in  the  Q.  M.  C.,  for  which  his  training  in 
the  First  National  Bank  of  Moana  stood 
him  in  sufficient  stead. 

Some  waggish  angel  must  have  taken 
liberties  with  the  clay,  God's  back  being 
turned,  when  Icarus  Brown  was  molded.  He 
was  not  calculated  in  the  beginning  only  to 
charm.  Perhaps  he  acquired  years  ago, 
gradually  in  his  youth,  an  awareness  of  it, 
and  perhaps  it  was  something  like  this  that 
determined  him  upon  achieving  a  cerebral 
efflorescence  as  out  of  his  bent,  alas,  as  the 
superficial  attractions  it  was  to  make  up  for. 
To  make  up  for  them,  you  see,  by  sheer  suc- 
cess just  as  he  was  didn't  satisfy  him!  His 
vanity  had  to  be  established  beforehand.  So 
ambitious  was  he  to  escape  the  doom  of  being 
personally  commonplace,  for  which  he  was  so 
admirably  constituted,  that  larger  ambitions 
gave  way.  To  be  sure,  he  was  plodding,  semi- 
prosperous;  for  he  had,  along  with  his  big 
awry  nose,  and  his  wispy,  unathletic  rather 
abdominal  figure,  and  the  slight  lisp  of  an 
impediment  in  his  loosely  pitched  voice,  a 
conscience  and  a  capacity.  But  he  compro- 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

mised  them,  so  great  was  his  personal  yearn- 
ing, by  focusing  foremost  and  indefatigably 
upon  Culture.  And  he  had  attained,  in  the 
course  of  his  forty-odd  years,  Culturine. 

Miss  Minnie  Gutterson,  I  gather,  was  the 
original  bosomer  of  it.  She  lived  in  the 
metropolis  of  Moana,  not  so  far  away  on 
the  Great  Lakes,  and  he  used  to  run  up  to 
her  for  week-ends  and  fetes — even  afternoon 
parties  sometimes  if  there  was  to  be  a  reading 
of  "The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes"  aloud  on  a  gala 
scale,  or  a  discussion,  say,  of  "The  Ins  and 
Outs  of  Ibsen."  And  when  the  war  came 
she,  like  so  many  parentless — and  husbandless 
or  loverless — women  with  incomes,  came  to 
Washington  for  a  couple  of  seasons. 

Icarus  gave  me  to  understand,  now  and 
then  as  time  went  on,  in  the  course  of  our 
closer  contacts  within  those  four  walls,  the 
various  ways  she  had  of  stimulating  all  his 
weaknesses  and  of  widening  his  horizon  to 
include  as  many  as  possible  of  her  own.  He 
would  wake  me  mornings  to  read  a  poem 
from  the  Literary  Digest  and  to  ask  me  if  I 
didn't  think  it  showed  the  influence  of  "Lau- 
rence Hope" — cutting  it  out  and  paring  it 
the  while  with  some  curved  nail  scissors,  to 
send  to  Miss  Minnie  Gutterson.  Or,  on  an- 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

other  day,  when  I  ragged  him  about  his 
ecstatic  look,  as  he  applied  some  skimmed- 
milk-like  tonic  to  his  sparsely  preserved  hair, 
he  made  no  bones  of  saying  it  was  Miss  Gut- 
terson  who  recommended  it  and  who  ex- 
plained to  him  carefully  that  "rubbing  it  in 
furnished  a  pleasant  sensation  which  it  was 
perfectly  nice  and  right  to  enjoy."  And  I 
can  see  and  hear  him  now  as  he  caught  me 
up  thus  on  the  use  of  the  great  word  in  the 
midst  of  his  shaving,  gobs  of  lather  melting 
where  they  had  fallen  down  the  chest  of  his 
long-sleeved  flannels,  suspenders  looped  over 
his  gawky  hips,  razor  flamboyantly  aloof: 

"Love?  State  what  you  mean  by  that 
word  'love.'  Do  you  refer  to  love  in  its  true 
definition,  or  to  passion  merely?  'Love  is 
not  passion,  nor  is  passion  love/  .  .  .  Oh,  you 
must  know  Miss  Gutterson !  When  will  you 
arrange  to  go  see  her?" 

It  had  to  be  arranged  finally.  It  was  in- 
evitable. And  there  was,  after  all,  a  sweetness 
in  his  assumption  that  to  share  Miss  Gutter- 
son  with  me  would  be  to  reciprocate  lavishly 
for  anything.  There  was  sweetness,  I  con- 
fess, in  lots  of  his  folderol,  just  as  there  was 
pathos,  too — and  the  wan  debatable  charm 

which  comes  with  that  combination. 

10 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

After  many  postponements,  a  day  was  set 
for  my  visit.  I  wasn't  to  accompany  Icarus. 
I  was  to  meet  him  at  Miss  Gutterson's — a 
wretched,  cozy-cornered  affair  of  a  house,  by 
the  way — at  five  o'clock.  And  I  took  pains 
to  go  later  than  five  lest  I  precede  him.  But 
I  didn't  precede  him.  I  found  them  fortui- 
tously side  by  side  on  her  draped  sofa  before 
the  fire. 

I  remember  I  thought  at  the  very  first 
sight  how  predestined  they  were  for  each 
other  —  esthetically,  however  otherwise. 
One  saw,  one  detected  a  bond  between 
them,  if  only  from  the  way  their  eye-glasses 
respectively  nipped  and  clipped  forth  the 
soft,  flabby  portions  above  their  noses.  They 
were  both  so  erect  and  bleak  and  curveless. 

Miss  Gutterson  was  plain,  pale,  and  what 
is  often  mistaken  for  worthy-looking;  about 
the  same  age  as  Icarus.  But  she  had,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  at  least,  an  incongruous 
free-mindedness,  an  overt  craving  for  liberty 
of  action  and  speech,  an  untoward  and  per- 
haps just  smoldering  wildness  about  her, 
which  I  marveled  had  not  shown  even  a  more 
marked  effect  upon  Icarus.  She  welcomed 
me  as  if  wanting  on  the  spot  to  show  she  had 

no  scruples  to  conceal,   grasped  my  hand 

11 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

masculinely  in  a  fairly  reckless  imitation  of 
good-fellowship,  and  exclaimed: 

"You  have  come  in  the  nick  of  time!  We 
were  discussing  the  Princess  of  Tork !  Won't 
you  sit  down — here — there — or  in  that  bas- 
sinet" (waving  to  a  low  wicker  chair) — "any- 
where you  like." 

"Yes,"  echoed  Icarus,  proudly.  "Now 
we,  Miss  Gutterson  and  I,  rejoice  in  frank- 
ness. Doesn't  the  power  of  the  princess  de- 
pend somewhat  upon  her  past?  Don't  we, 
however  unheroically,  reverence  those  who 
have  had  the  courage  for  Romance — for  Sin, 
perhaps — who  knows?  .  .  .  Cannot  one  be 
moral  in  the  essential  sense,  and  yet  have 
some  sins  to  account  for,  too?  Haven't  you 
ever — " 

"Who  is  the  Princess  of  Tork?"  I  diverged 
with  a  relish. 

But  Icarus  acceded  to  my  question  with- 
out any  resentment.  At  a  signal  from  Miss 
Gutterson  he  subsided  wide-eyed  and  waited. 
She  laughed,  and  tucked  in  a  stray  strand  of 
hair  with  one  hand,  and  gave  the  tea-table 
a  little  push  with  the  other,  and  crossed  her 
lean  limbs,  and  thus  abandoned  herself  to  a 
long  vista  of  competent  chat  on  this  glamor- 
ous realm  so  peculiarly  within  her  range. 

12 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

Whereupon  Icarus  took  quick  puerile  puffs 
at  a  cigarette,  and  half  shut  his  eyes,  directing 
them  from  her  to  me  with  a  grand  conscious- 
ness of  initiation  in  the  subject  he  was  duly 
gratified  to  have  me  hear  her  expound. 

"Tina  Engalls  lived  across  the  street  from 
me  until  she  was  about  twelve  years  old ;  and 
although  she  was  rather  younger,"  Miss  Gut- 
terson  finessed  with  a  cough,  "and  was  never 
considered  extraordinarily  bright,  or  superior 
mentally,  shall  I  say? — there  was  a  way- 
wardness in  her  which  7  must  have  appealed 
to.  For  she  distributed  her  mother's  jewelry 
one  day — and  Sadie  Engalls  had  a  good 
many  choice  pieces — among — among  little 
urchins  she  picked  up  on  the  very  byways — 
fancy! — and  she  never  would  confess  what 
she  had  done  with  it  to  anybody  but  me. 
Quite  a  temperamental  little  girl. 

"Her  mother  took  her  abroad  eventually, 
on  endless  journeys  and  sojournings;  and 
at  last,  years  later — at  Cairo,  I  think — they 
came  upon  the  prince  himself.  Yes,  it  was 
all  quite  like  a  book.  Juan  Albert  may  have 
been  in  the  very  act  of  gazing  at  the  Sphinx, 
or  ascending  a  pyramid,  or  lolling  on  the 
Nile — 'It  flows  through  old  hushed  Egypt 
and  her  sands' — who  is  it  tells  us  that, 

13 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

Icarus? — when  Tina  first  beheld  him.  And 
he  lo&ked,  I've  heard — my  aunt's  younger 
brother-in-law  met  him  once  and  told  me — 
like  the  handsome  villain  in  a  play.  Natu- 
rally it  was  touch-and-go  between  them. 

"But  after  the  knot  was  tied,  he — Juan 
Albert — carried  Tina — not  to  Tork,  oh  no! — 
I  don't  remember  where  Tork  is.  Do  you, 
Icarus?  But  it's  not  German;  it's  over  the 
border  at  least;  Slavic,  I  think.  Well,  any- 
way, the  prince  bore  Tina  to  Paris  itself,  to 
the  very  apartment  where  his  last  cast-off 
mistress  had  lived,  with  her  things — the  ex- 
mistress's  former  splendor  all  there!  Her 
gold  toilet  articles  on  the  dresser!  Her  pow- 
der, her  rouge,  her  hair-dye,  in  plain  sight 
everywhere! 

"And  so — quite  a  mise  en  scene,  wasn't 
it? — not  long  afterward  the  prince  and  prin- 
cess parted.  But  not  until  all  kinds  of  cruel- 
ties to  poor  beautiful  Tina!  She  did  not,  it 
is  true,  read.  I  used  to  try,  when  we'd  walk 
to  see  the  animals  in  Douglas  Park,  to  guide 
her  mind  to  such  channels.  And  I  believe  I 
should  have  succeeded  if  her  mother  hadn't 
regarded  me  as  such  a  bad  influence."  (Miss 
Gutterson  cherished  this  suspicion  with  a 
grin  amid  her  bleakness.)  "And  when  the 

14 


THE   PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

prince  came,  if  you  please,  he  was  more  so. 
He  couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  a  book! 

"  Well,  Tina  did  cultivate  a  liking,  it  seems, 
for  Conan  Doyle.  And  the  last  act  of  down- 
right abusive  treatment  that  scion  of  a  noble 
house  was  guilty  of  was  to  take  The  Hound 
of  the  Baskervilles  right  out  of  Tina's  hands 
in  the  middle  of  the  most  breathless  passage 
and — and  throw  it  into  the  flames!  I  had 
that  from  my  aunt's  brother-in-law  straight. 
It  was  the  final  cause  of  their  separation." 

Needless  to  explain,  Miss  Gutterson  was 
an  avid  raconteuse  of  these  atrocities.  She 
got  from  their  recital  such  a  thrill  as  the  less 
learned  or  the  more  experienced  might  have 
had  to  resort  to  debauchery  itself  to  feel. 
Nor  was  her  excitement  at  all  hampered  by 
the  effect  she  produced  upon  Icarus  Brown. 
His  incipient  soar  was  lost  in  Minnie's  flight. 
You  might  have  thought,  to  see  him,  that  the 
princess's  glorious  and  checkered  career  was 
Miss  Gutterson's  own.  He  basked  in  the 
sound  of  such  things — such  rash  and  traveled 
and  knowing  and,  withal,  cultural  things — 
from  her  lips.  He  stood  up  dizzily  when  it 
was  over,  and  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his 
pockets,  and  looked  down  at  me  with  a 
vertiginous  smile  that  said,  "You  see,  you 

15 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

see  now,  how  broad,  how  many-sided,  Minnie 
Gutterson  can  be !"  Literally  it  was  as  if  she 
had  appropriated  the  tragedies  and  triumphs 
of  the  princess  to  bedeck  herself. 

"Does  Icarus  know  the  Princess  of  Tork 
very  well?" 

"Gracious,  no!"  gurgled  Miss  Gutterson 
aloud.  "He  never  saw  her!  J  didn't  know 
Icarus  then.  And — well — the  idea  makes  me 
laugh.  So  few  people  do  know  Icarus  at 
home !  They're  all  afraid  of  him.  They  re- 
gard him,  you  see,  as — as  an  intellectual 
snob!" 

Icarus  was  both  smiling  and  frowning  now, 
nodding  his  head  uncertainly,  rejoicing  and 
worrying  over  his  reputation,  and  that  the 
world  was  as  it  was — so  tempting,  but  so 
beneath  him. 

"  I  haven't  seen  Tina  yet  here.  It's  only 
now  that  I  find  myself  anywhere  near  her 
again  for  years.  Oh,  I'll  ask  her  one  of  these 
days  after  I  get  my  household  better  organ- 
ized, and — and  the  rest  of  my  books  arrive. 
Just  what  Icarus  would  think  of  her  mine/, 
notwithstanding  her  rich  and  passionate 
past— " 

"Why,  I'm  not  such  a  snob  as  all  that, 
Minnie — " 

16 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

"Will  you  come?  If  you'll  let  me  invite 
you  now,  and  set  the  date  afterward?"  .  .  . 

But  she  didn't  set  the  date  until  weeks 
afterward,  and  by  that  time  I'd  been  tem- 
porarily transferred.  So  I  never  met  the 
Princess  of  Tork.  I'd  had  her  pointed  out 
to  me,  however,  and  made  a  good  many  in- 
quiries concerning  her,  and  from  what  I'd 
seen  and  heard  I  hadn't  believed  Minnie 
Gutterson  could  ever  get  her  to  come. 

"  Who  is  she?  Who  is  she?"  I  cried  one  day 
on  the  street  as  my  two  companions  drew  me 
back  to  the  curb  to  let  an  automobile  pass. 
It  was  dusk,  I  remember.  I  could  but  catch 
sight  of  her  dimly  inclosed  within,  gazing  at 
the  flowers  clasped  on  her  lap.  About 
thirty-three  or  four,  they  said — with  looks 
that  took  for  granted  the  connoisseurship  of 
all  who  beheld  her.  And  to  have  not  only 
beauty,  but  the  romance  of  beauty  as  well, 
is  very  rare.  Really,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  car  she  sat  in  like  a  burnished  throne 
rolled  over  the  asphalt.  Her  instant's  pass- 
ing made  somehow  a  difference  to  that 
crowded  commonplace  thoroughfare.  There 
was  almost  a  whiff  of  fragrance  in  the 
twilight. 

"The  princess  always  reminds  me  of  'the 

17 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

kiss* — or  was  it  a  'face'? — 'that  launched  a 
thousand  ships/  "  said  my  first  companion. 

"Yes — and  a  good  many  other  kisses  be- 
sides," said  the  second. 

She  doubtless  had  not  led  a  quiet  life. 
For  life,  not  books,  was  her  medium  and 
metier.  She  had  left,  probably,  a  trail  of 
broken  hearts  behind  her  long  before  she  met 
Icarus  Brown  at  Minnie  Gutterson's — be- 
lieving not,  it  was  said,  in  man's  constancy 
or  woman's  devotion,  but  in  "Love  that 
lasteth  not  too  late."  Beaux,  of  course,  she 
believed  in,  and  of  them  had  an  endless  wait- 
ing-list. Whenever  she  boarded  a  train,  for 
example,  some  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court, 
some  great  financier  of  the  administration, 
would  have  a  secretary  or  major-domo  to 
greet  her  with  tickets — in  case  she  might 
have  forgotten  to  purchase  any;  with  offers 
of  a  stateroom — or  a  better  stateroom  if  she 
had  one;  with  all  the  favors  such  beaux,  old 
and  young,  have  it  in  their  power  to  bestow. 
She  didn't  court  favor  so  much  as  she  was 
courted  by  it.  She  had  but  to  lift  her  finger, 
it  was  said,  to  make  or  mar  a  man — or  a 
woman,  for  that  matter.  And  she  was,  I 
take  it,  as  designing  as  she  was  beautiful. 

Do  you  wonder  that  Minnie's  having  even 

18 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

the  frailest  acquaintance  with  her  seemed 
grotesque? 

Not  so  grotesque  as  what  resulted  from  it! 
When  I  came  back,  transferred  again,  to 
Washington,  I  found  there  as  nearly  as  I 
could  make  out  that  the  name  of  the  Princess 
of  Tork  was  linked  with  the  name  of  Icarus 
Brown  on  every  one's  lips.  He  was  at  all 
her  parties.  He  was  the  last  guest  to  leave 
the  house.  The  footman  in  the  hall,  when 
the  others  departed,  shut  the  tall  folding- 
doors  at  the  end  of  the  great  drawing-room, 
where  only  Icarus  with  the  princess  remained. 

What,  what  did  they  talk  of  then?  / 
could  not  picture  the  scene!  Did  Icarus 
kneel  on  the  fur  rug  before  the  fire  and  mur- 
mur: "O  Princess!  Most  radiant  Princess! 
O  moon  of  the  tides  of  will !  Do  you — pray 
be  frank  with  me — do  you  believe  in  the  in- 
crease of  crime  in  our  world's  greatest 
cities?"  And  if  he  did,  what  line  could  the 
princess  take?  Except  possibly  to  meander 
to  the  gleaming  tray  on  the  table  and  pour 
out  the  least  little  regal  sip  in  a  glass  and 
drain  it  for  inspiration ! 

I  only  know  that  I  was  late  getting  to 
bed  in  those  days,  and  still  later  getting  to 
sleep,  and  that  I  never  was  aware  at  what 

19 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

hour  Icarus  returned.  In  fact,  we  seldom 
saw  each  other  except  during  our  duo  of 
dressing  in  the  morning.  And  he  wouldn't 
and  I  wouldn't  mention  the  princess.  But 
then,  he  wouldn't  mention  Minnie  any  more 
except  when  I  made  him.  The  only  conver- 
sation he  still  opened  up  was  apropos  of 
"great  issues,"  as  I  called  them — which  from 
instinct  or  force  of  habit  still  evoked  hypo- 
thetical questions  in  his  quest  for  light.  He 
would  emerge  from  the  bath,  his  patches  -of 
straight  hair  on  end,  dabbing  his  lank  body 
with  a  towel,  to  exclaim: 

"Don't  you  think  it's  really  essentially 
wrong  our  having  to  wear  clothes  at  all? 
Isn't  civilization  all  artificial?  Don't  you 
think  clothes  cramp  our  natural  impulses,  and 
deck  us  out  for  the  gods  to  laugh  at?" 

I  scrutinized  him. 

"  I  wonder  what  Miss  Gutterson  would  say 
to  that?" 

"Oh,  Minnie'd  understand  Minnie'd 
agree!" 

With  which  he  briskly  proceeded  to  con- 
form to  the  demands  of  convention.  But  he 
dressed  faster  in  those  days,  much  more 
fastidiously;  and  he  had  several  new  suits — 

on   the   sleek   gray  order.    He'd   grab   his 

20 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

tailed  morning  coat  and  his  soft  hat  at  the 
end,  nod  to  me  abruptly,  and  slam  the  door. 
He  certainly  was  altogether  different.  I 
would  watch  him  through  the  window  start 
down  the  street  at  a  confident  clip,  swinging 
his  arms  as  if  he  was  going  to  meet  the  world. 

And  he  was.  Though  I  never  imagined 
any  denouement!  Why  should  I  have? 
Oh,  of  course  I  noted  the  change  in  him 
going  on  and  on — and  growing  and  growing — 
day  by  day  and  week  by  week.  But  I 
registered  it  only  half  credulously — and  only 
half  attributed  it,  with  an  amazed  sort  of 
semi-belief  in  such  things,  to  the  princess. 
I  knew  him  so  hopelessly  well;  I  thought  I 
did !  Whatever  I  saw  counted,  as  humdrum 
things  too  closely  related  to  one  will,  for  phe- 
nomena that  I  alone  was  interested  in.  I 
credited  my  observations  of  his  renascence  or 
rejuvenation  mostly  to  morbid  interest  on 
my  part — as  parents  notice  but  don't  attach 
ulterior  importance  to  the  critical  develop- 
ment of  a  deprecated  child.  In  short,  as  far 
as  practical  differences  went,  I  was  hardly 
more  than  hugely  amused. 

But  a  hair-raising  shock  was  in  store  for 
me.  Icarus  never  let  out  the  least  breath 
of  a  warning.  He  but  continued  to  become 

21 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

nearer  and  nearer  apotheosized,  and  I  to  in- 
voke the  comic  muse's  support!  I  never 
went  out,  you  see.  I  had  to  work  evenings 
and  all,  for  the  time  being.  My  very  first 
word  of  it  was  flashed  upon  me  in  those  head- 
lines. I  can  feel  now  how  the  appalling 
news  percolated  home: 

NEW   CHAIRMAN   OF   THE   U.    S. 
MARINE    BOARD    APPOINTED 


Icarus   Brown    of   Moana,    Minnesota 


You  could  have  knocked  me  over  with  a 
feather.  Of  course  I'd  heard  the  Princess  of 
Tork  was  powerful.  But  I  didn't  dream  she 
was  as  powerful  as  that.  I  didn't  dream 
anybody  could  be.  If  it  had  been  England, 
and  Gladstone's  time,  you  know,  and  one  of 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  novels!  But  this 
was  Real  Life,  and  the  war  was  going  on,  and 
Efficiency  was  the  great  American  battle-cry. 
I  walked  home  that  night,  my  mind  as  much 
in  a  fog  as  the  sultry  city — searching  for 
some  perspective  amid  the  maze  of  streets 
and  low  globular  lamps  and  phantasmal 

trees.    For  once  the  city  seemed  to  me — as 

22 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

Minnie  Gutterson  might  have  pronounced  it 
— mysterious. 

Yet,  when  I  entered  my  room,  there  were 
Icarus's  suspenders,  half  slipping  from  the 
cushions  of  a  Morris  chair,  and  a  lavender 
note  unopened  upon  an  arm  of  it.  The  com- 
bination looked  dreadfully  real.  Not  to 
wait  up  for  him  was  out  of  the  question. 
But  how  should  I  dissemble?  How  could  / 
congratulate  him  and  say  that  at  last  his 
talents  had  won  their  deserts? 

When  I  heard  the  masterly  rattle  of  his 
key  at  the  lock  I  braced  myself,  but  when  he 
walked  in  so  authoritatively  and  straight 
across  the  room  to  me,  I  saw  there  was  no 
need  of  any  insincerity.  He  was  already 
used  to  fulsome  praises !  He  but  disposed  of 
mine  by  a  wave  of  the  hand — said  it  was 
rank  folly  for  me  to  have  stayed  awake  like 
that,  and  tore  off  his  evening  clothes  and 
turned  out  the  light. 

And  from  all  over  town  a  galaxy  of  invi- 
tations poured  in.  One  heard  of  mots  of 
his  that  brought  down  the  dinner-table.  If, 
when  repeated  to  me,  I  weighed  them — de- 
spite the  real  change  in  him — skeptically, 
that  was  perhaps  due  again  to  the  misfortune 
of  my  having  known  Icarus  in  his  earlier  in- 

3  23 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

carnation  too  well.  But  do  you  blame  me? 
One  mot,  for  example,  actually  was  that 
his  idea  of  bliss  was  to  have  his  head  rubbed 
with  a  full  orches tra  playing!  Remember? 
I  speculated  whether  that  orchestra  part 
hadn't  just  got  put  into  his  mouth  from  the 
general  confusion  around  him,  without  his 
understanding  any  fun  there  was  in  it  for  the 
crowd  at  all.  Of  course  if  he  could,  under  the 
stress  of  applause,  distort  his  old  morbid 
rag-ends  and  bobtails  of  absurdity  into  seem- 
ing to  spring  from  deliberate  effort  on  his  part 
to  amuse  the  ladies,  no  wonder  he  scored ! 

But  he  scored  with  the  men  even  better. 
His  hypothetical  questions  about  God,  man, 
and  the  state  used  to  get  them  all  going. 
He  was  at  his  best,  it  was  said,  in  the  smok- 
ing-room, and  afterward,  up-stairs,  his  talk 
was  still  addressed  principally  to  the  men, 
while  the  gentler  sex  sat  meekly — but  ecstatic 
— in  rows  and  listened. 

Was  it,  his  position  and  power,  I  pondered, 
a  practical  joke  on  the  part  of  the  princess?. . . 

I  did  pay  one  visit  that  season.  I  went  to 
call — quite  unannounced — upon  Miss  Minnie 
Gutterson.  I  went  out  of  sheer  curiosity,  I 
suppose,  but  I  pretended  to  myself  it  was 
sheer  pity  that  prompted  me. 

24 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

I  found  her,  to  my  stupefaction,  in  the  high- 
est of  spirits.  She  seemed  on  the  crest  of 
the  wave — keyed  to  an  abnormal  pitch,  to 
be  sure,  as  if  under  the  strain  of  marvelous 
suppressions — but  so  much  less  bleak  and 
arid.  There  was  a  glow  on  her  cheeks,  a 
flame  in  her  eyes.  She  had  the  air  of  holding 
the  reins  at  last — of  guiding  the  pulses  of 
things.  She  was  wearing  a  would-be  fan- 
taisie,  more  after  the  manner  or  mode,  I  as- 
sumed, of  a  teagown  than  anything  else. 
She  welcomed  me  wildly,  and  with  her  very 
first  words  disarmed  me  of  all  preconceived 
ideas  as  to  what  I  would  tactfully  say. 

"Aren't  you  proud,"  she  demanded — 
"aren't  you  proud  of  what  Icarus  is  doing  for 
his  country?" 

I  blurted  out  point-blank  that  I  thought 
any  "pride"  involved  was  more  especially  a 
concern  of  the  Princess  of  Tork's. 

Miss  Gutterson  flirted  silently  a  moment 
with  my  thought,  as  if  she  perhaps  had  one 
worth  two  of  it.  But  she  only  crossed  her 
legs  and  laughed  and  said: 

"I've  always  wanted  to  see  Icarus  stirred — 
really  and  truly  stirred,  you  know." 

"Then   you   have   but   to   look   at   him 


now." 


25 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"How  can  I,  though,  when  I  don't  ever  see 
him  now?" 

"Good  Heavens!    Don't  you?"  I  cried. 

"I  haven't  set  eyes  on  Icarus  for  more 
than  two  months." 

"But  why — why — haven't  you?" 

"Tell  me  all  about  him,"  Minnie  grinned. 

I  told  her  something.  I  was  so  astonished 
I  hardly  knew  what  I  told  her.  And  while  I 
told  her  whatever  I  did,  she  performed  vari- 
ous gleeful  antics — merrily  ordered  tea,  bois- 
terously made  it,  incontinently  sipped  hers, 
flung  the  cup  down,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
draped  sofa,  a  hand  tight  to  each  knee,  and 
plied  me  with  questions. 

Why  should  she  revel  thus  in  being  jilted? 
You  would  have  thought,  to  see  her,  it  was 
the  summit  of  her  desires — a  role  perhaps  she 
had  always  craved!  Of  course  I'd  gathered 
at  our  first  meeting  that  she  was  prone  to 
the  most  vicarious  flights,  and  conceivably 
to  her  it  was  a  compliment  to  have  Icarus 
picked,  chosen  from  a  world  of  men,  by  a  true 
princess.  It  was  a  compliment,  too — if  she 
went  so  far  afield  for  compliments — to  have 
the  jilting  party  raised  so  high.  But  by  the 
same  tokens  why  shouldn't  he  have  become 
indispensably  enhanced  now  in  her  eyes? 

26 


THE  PRINCESS   OF  TORK 

And  how  was  her  vicarious  gain  enough  to 
compensate  her  for  his  absence?  How  imag- 
ine that  just  to  have  been  supplanted  by  a 
princess  and  jilted  by  even  the  chairman  of 
the  U.  S.  Marine  Board  was  sufficient  basis 
for  her  exalted  state? 

"You  of  course  miss  him  terribly,"  I 
mocked. 

"It  is  an  era,  though,  of  such  sacrifice, 
is  it  not?"  she  rang  in. 

"Yes,  you  must  do  your  'bit,'  I  suppose." 

"And  maybe  the  princess  must!  Who 
knov/s  ?"  she  let  slip  with  gusto. 

Her  eyes,  and  her  mouth,  and  the  way  she 
swayed  her  leg  over  her  knee  as  she  said  it 
suggested  to  me  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue 
that  that  woman  believed  she  had  something 
up  her  sleeve.  What  she  might  believe  it 
was  I  couldn't  bother  to  guess.  But  the 
vanity  of  it  suddenly  touched  me.  I  went 
away  with  a  puzzled  feeling  akin  to  pity — I 
really  did. 

And  I  should  have  pitied  her  better  and 
more  constantly,  I  expect,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  visit  I  paid  soon  after  to  the  U.  S. 
Marine  Board.  The  revelation  that  that 
was  to  me  wiped  out  everything.  It  was  a 
cold,  crisp  Christmas  morning — the  morning 

27 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

of  Christmas,  1917.  When  I  saw  him  there 
— when  I  saw  Icarus  presiding  over  the 
board's  long  table  that  Christmas  morning, 
I  cried  to  myself  in  the  midst  of  my  gaping 
that  if  the  Princess  of  Tork  had  accomplished 
such  magic,  then  hail,  all  hail  to  the  Princess 
of  Tork!  She  is  a  worker  of  miracles! 

I  cannot  do  justice  to  the  impression  he 
made  upon  me.  I  had  to  wait  until  the  fray 
was  over  to  get  a  word  with  him,  though  the 
business  that  brought  me  was — according  to 
my  humble  standards — pressing.  He  leaned 
majestically  this  way  and  that,  deigning  to 
hear  what  the  members  were  saying.  He 
shook  his  head  at  them  definitively,  answering 
their  respective  arguments  with  but  a  word. 
His  voice  was  firm — no  lisp  to  notice  left  in 
it.  Every  wrinkle  dignified  his  gaunt,  awry 
face.  The  awkwardness  of  his  features  lent 
force  to  his  arguments.  When  he  backed 
his  chair,  whisked  the  tails  of  his  coat  away 
free  from  it,  and  stood  up,  in  an  instant  all 
was  ominous  silence. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  shouted.  And  his  hand 
— without  a  quiver — closed  and  came  down 
hard  upon  the  table.  "  That  ship  must  be 
sent  to  Ecuador  at  once!" 

You  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  as  the 

28 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

echoes  of  that  uncontrovertible  utterance 
died  out.  And  straightway,  in  the  hypno- 
tized interval  that  followed,  every  man 
nodded  his  head. 

Icarus  released  their  attention  with  a 
smile  and  turned  for  the  first  time  to  me,  but 
as  if  he  had  been  conscious  of  my  presence 
there  all  along.  He  certainly  never  greeted 
me  so  competently  before.  I  could  hardly 
collect  my  wits  to  despatch  the  errand  I'd 
come  for. 

And  that  occasion  furnished  the  great 
grand  picture  of  him  I  was  to  take  away  in 
my  mind  when  I  went  overseas. 

For  I  was  ordered  thence  not  so  much 
later.  I  had  to  embark  in  a  hurry.  Icarus 
went  with  me  to  the  station  the  night  I  left 
Washington.  We  had  barely  got  seated  in 
our  cab  when  he  turned  to  me  and  demanded : 

"Doesn't  man's  power  depend  upon 
woman,  anyway?  Isn't  she  the  touchstone 
of  his  strength — the  force  to  make  him  fare 
forth  and  flourish?  Some  women,  I  mean! 
If  he  kneels  to  them,  if  he  dares  to,  and — 
makes  good,  what  has  he  to  fear  in  the  world? 
Why  is  it — oh,  why  is  it — that  upon  his  rela- 
tion to  women — some  women— -depends  his 
grasp?" 

29 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

I  was  inclined  to  scoff.  But  comic  as  it 
might  be  for  him — in  his  position,  too — to 
hand  out  such  a  line  of  stuff  to  me,  I  decided 
that,  this  being  our  last  night,  I'd  better  let  it 
pass.  And  he  didn't  expect  much  serious 
comment  on  the  hypothetical  flora  which  he 
still,  notwithstanding  his  eminence,  as  I've 
said,  was  in  the  habit  of  emitting  at  moments. 
Something,  moreover,  about  his  tone  and 
meaning  made  me  rather  respectful. 

"It's  Love,  you  know,  it's  Love,  that 
makes  the  world  go  round,"  I  only  said. 

"  Haven't  you  ever  shrunk  from  performing 
some  brave  deed  you  were  called  upon  to  do?" 
he  continued.  "If  so,  does  that  preclude 
you  from  joining  the  ranks  of  Heroes?  Can 
one  be  a  coward,  and  yet  a  hero,  too?  Ah, 
that  is  the  question!" 

We  happened  just  then  to  be  passing  Miss 
Gutterson's  house.  I  glanced  at  her  lighted 
windows,  the  shadowless  shades  well  drawn. 

"  What  is  loyalty?"  Icarus  pleaded.  "  Can 
you  be  loyal  to  somebody  —  anybody  —  if 
in  being  so  you  are  not  loyal  to  yourself? 
Or  is  that  the  only  way  to  be  loyal  —  to 
be  loyal  to — to — well — wherever  you  owe 
it?" 

This  was  too  much. 

30 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

"  I  don't  think  you  owe  any  more  to  Miss 
Gutterson,  if  that's  what  you  mean.'* 

"Why  do  you  say  such  a  thing?" 

"Because  I  think  you've  paid  her  all  debts 
in  full.  I've  been  to  see  her,  and  she's  as 
happy  as  a  clam  at  high- water." 

He  beset  me  for  the  details  of  my  visit,  so 
I  gave  them  to  him — rather  baldly,  I  fear, 
for  he  looked  at  me  wistfully  and  turned 
away  in  silence  for  a  while.  I  must  have 
made  it  pretty  plain  to  him  what  I  thought 
of  Miss  Minnie  Gutterson.  And  he  didn't 
get  out  when  we  reached  the  station.  He 
only  offered  me  his  hand  and  smiled  ably. 
He  might  have  been  then  presiding  over  the 
board  as  far  as  I  was  concerned !  It  was  the 
last  I  saw  of  him  until  this  evening. 

Almost  the  first  thing  I  heard  when  I  got 
back  was  that  Icarus  was  minus  his  job.  He 
had  been  superseded  on  the  U.  S.  Marine 
Board  and  had  broken  with  the  Princess  of 
Tork  forever;  or,  to  put  it  in  its  logical  se- 
quence, he  had  broken  forever  with  the  prin- 
cess and  had  been  superseded.  How  she 
could  accomplish  her  shift  of  plans  so  per- 
emptorily is  a  mystery — the  sort,  however, 
one  sooner  or  later  accepts;  I  do,  at  least, 
who  am  denied  the  greenroom  of  the  Powers 

31 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

That  Be.    But  how  could  she  accomplish  it 
so  inexorably?    How  could  she  want  to? 


in 

Though  my  confidante  had  been  listening 
hard,  her  strict  attention  had  not  made  her 
beauty  droop.  Her  expression  grew  keener, 
her  eyes  sparkled  less  patiently.  Ripples 
began  to  play  over  her  face — like  ripples  on 
bright  water  at  the  nearing  approach  of  a 
storm.  And  when  she  realized  it  was  her 
time  to  speak,  the  storm  broke — in  anger  and 
merriment — as  if  her  indignation  might  be  a 
part  of  her  gaiety. 

"You've  been,  the  world's  been,  so  unjust 
to  poor  Tina!  I  should  like  not  to  hold  to 
my  bargain.  Why  should  you  know,  who 
have  estimated  her  so  outrageously?  But 
yes — don't,  don't  adjure  me — I  will!  I'll 
not  do  it  out  of  honor,  though — honor  be 
dashed  in  such  company!  I'll  do  it  only  to 
right  a  great  wrong  that's  been  done  her — 
unimportant  as  it  is  to  me.  What  I  have  to 
tell,  as  I've  said  before,  is  just  Tina's  side  of 
the  story.  But  remember — it  isn't  very 
much  of  a  story!  You've  wantonly  over- 
scored  it  already.  Though  I  confess  to  you 

32 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

again  that  I  got  the  little  I  have  pretty — 
pretty  straight.  .  .  . 

"Tina  liked  Icarus  Brown  the  moment  she 
saw  him.  Minnie  Gutterson  called  and 
called,  and  telephoned  and  telephoned,  and 
wrote  and  wrote.  And  at  last  Tina  went. 
And  she  was  glad. 

"However  far  Tina  may  have  strayed  from 
the  Great  Lakes  in  later  life,  she  still  had  the 
blood  of  near-Moana  in  her  veins,  and 
that  may  have  been  a  bond  between  her  and 
Icarus  at  the  very  start — even  as  it  was  a 
sword  between  her  and  Minnie  Gutterson. 
You  talk  about  his  funny  side  as  if  you'd 
been  clever  to  perceive  it.  Of  course  he  was 
provincial!  Minnie  may  characteristically 
have  thought  that  at  home  he  was  considered 
an  intellectual  snob;  Tina  would  take  the 
stand  and  swear  that  at  home  he  was  con- 
sidered an  earnest,  bewildered  worker  who  had 
dyspepsia.  The  pathos  of  that  and  his  fail- 
ure to  be  anything  different  were  what  she 
saw  in  him  first  and  foremost. 

"She  found  him  in  that  atrocious  Minnie 
atmosphere  you  tell  of.  She  listened.  But 
she  hadn't  your  standards  to  go  by — she  who 
never  'd  even  finished  The  Hound  of  the 
Baskervilles!  She  just  hated  it,  and  thought 

33 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Minnie  Gutterson  wicked  to  beguile  him 
along  in  that  benighted  gloom. 

"For,  over  and  above  everything,  she  had 
never  seen  a  person  look  out  of  his  eyes  at 
her  so  appealingly  as  did  Icarus  Brown. 
You're  a  man — you  couldn't  see  it.  Why — * 
she  would  have  pawned  her  pearls,  had  they 
only  been  real,  to  rescue  him.  She  had  suf- 
fered so  on  the  Great  Lakes  herself,  though 
so  long  ago,  and  she  remembered  even  yet, 
when  she  saw  her  again,  her  horror  of  Minnie 
Gutterson  and  many,  many  others  precisely 
like  her,  and  what  it  once  was  to  get  away 
and  spread  her  wings.  Can't  you  see?  Tina 
is  a  plunger.  She  took  the  step  you  seemed 
to  think  hazardous  in  the  extreme — she  asked 
him  to  dinner.  She  didn't  ask  Minnie  Gut- 
terson, then  or  ever,  for  she  loathed  her  and 
all  she  stood  for. 

"Icarus  Brown  came.  He  looked  at  her 
under  her  own  roof  so  much  more — oh,  ever 
so  much  more — appealingly  than  in  Minnie 
Gutterson's  parlor.  And  she  liked  him.  more, 
too — his  funny  voice,  his  old  pathetic  face, 
and  his  stiff,  neat  clothes.  And  she  asked 
him  again  and  again.  Aught  she  could  do  to 
give  him  a  good  time  she  would  do  to  her 
utmost,  gladly. 

34 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

"Tina's  life  was  foolishly  crowded  and 
empty.  What  so  strange  in  her  begging  him 
now  and  then  to  stay  on  for  a  chat  when  the 
other  guests  had  gone?  O  you  literary  gos- 
sips !  Whom  would  you  have  had  her  beg  to 
better  advantage?  Suppose  his  talk  was — 
after  the  footman  in  the  hall  had  shut  the 
tall  folding-doors  at  the  end  of  Tina's  great 
drawing-room,  as  you  say — suppose  it  was 
ridiculous,  was  it  less  entertaining  than  some 
diplomat's  who  thought  only  of  aping  the 
'best'  European  phrases?  Or  some  Pacific 
coast  Senator's  who  ponderously  confided 
how  many  bottles  of  wine  were  en  route  to 
him  from  Oporto?  Good  God !  Hadn't  Tina 
had  enough  of  that? 

"And  don't  forget  the  bond  they  began 
with.  However  different  they  were  su- 
perficially, however  different  possibly  their 
speech,  mightn't  their  souls'  vernacular  have 
been  the  same — almost  the  same?  If  he  said 
to  her, '  O  princess,  O  beautiful  and  bountiful 
princess' — whatever  it  was  you  said  he  said 
— who  knows  but  that  fitted  into  the  picture 
— her  picture — better  than — than — well — 
what  the  uniformed  figureheads  she  was  daily 
surrounded  by  contributed?  And  if  he  asked 
her  in  the  next  breath  what  she  thought  of 

35 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

'the  increase  of  crime  in  our  world's  greatest 
cities,'  she  doubtless  grew — grew  absorbed. 
She  asked  him  probably  what  crimes  he 
meant!  Whereupon  he,  taught  frankness 
and  freedom  of  ideas  by  Minnie  Gutterson, 
perhaps  plaintively  suggested  theft  and 
arson. 

"And  she  may — who  knows? — have  quite 
innocently  and  accustomedly  suggested  other 
crimes — until  it  began  to  dawn  on  him  that 
there  existed  fresher  and  fairer  fields  for  his 
fustian  fancy  to  roam  in  than  he  had  ever 
dreamed.  Can't  you  see  now  what  an  excel- 
lent time  they  must  have  had  together?  If 
she  allowed  him  to  kneel  on  the  fur  rug  before 
the  fire,  it  was  only  because  he  had  always 
wanted,  passionately  yearned,  to  kneel  on  a 
fur  rug  before  a  lady's  fire,  and  because  for 
him  to  satisfy  at  least  some  bit  of  his  longings 
was  most  to  her  taste. 

"Tina's  great  serious  'inspiration,'  I  rea- 
son, was  just  to  give  Icarus  a  chance.  Her 
inspiration  came  almost  at  the  first  sight  of 
him.  She  needed  no — no  stimulus  to  have 
it — though  she  may  have  had  now  and  then 
to  meander  to  the  glittering  tray,  as  you  so 
handsomely  put  it,  and  pour  out  a  wee  nip 
for  herself  so  as  not  to  lose  her  head!  .  .  . 

36 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

Perhaps  he  had  been  'molded'  esthetically 
beneath  his  bent,  and  perhaps  he'd  sought  to 
make  up  for  it  by  'cerebral  efflorescence'  as 
you  call  it;  but  you're  wrong  if  you  suppose 
for  an  instant  that  what  cerebral  efflorescence 
he'd  achieved,  plus  the  way  Minnie'd  con- 
doned and  distorted  it,  ever  had  filled  the 
discrepancy.  No.  Tina  saw  a  gleam  in  his 
eyes  which  even  Minnie  Gutterson  had  not 
obliterated.  She  read — with  a  sympathy,  an 
acumen  she  could  not  have  applied  to  books ! 
— she  deciphered  the  wild  need  that  had  been 
born  in  him  to  drink  from  the  cup  of  Romance 
— to  court  youth,  and — yes — beauty,  say — 
to  dare  to  turn  to  them  aspiringly  and  not 
have  them  turn  away !  She  understood  how 
he  had  lacked  his  whole  life  long  somebody 
meet  for  these  needs.  And  she  liked  him — 
yes,  over  and  above  the  fact  that  their  souls' 
vernacular  might  be  the  same! — she  adored 
him  because  she,  Tina,  saw  that  though  she 
was  older,  far  older  and — and  uglier  than  she 
ought  to  be,  he  regarded  her  as  if  perhaps 
she  would  be  young  enough  and  beautiful 
enough  to  fill  the  bill.  It  was  the  first 
chance — of  the  sort  of  chances  Tina  liked — 
that  she'd  ever  had  given  her  of  doing  good 
to  a  human  being. 

37 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"This  would  have  clinched  her  interest  in 
him — if  anything  had  been  necessary  to 
clinch  it.  They  got  on  famously,  oh,  they 
got  on  famously!  She'd  ask  people — her 
friends — now  and  then  to  invite  him,  but 
they  mostly  held  back  at  first,  the  way  even 
in  Washington  hostesses  will  when  prospec- 
tive guests  don't  present  the  usual  hackneyed 
*  points'  to  their  custom-worn  view.  She, 
at  any  rate,  coaxed  him  to  all  her  parties. 
She  liked  her  parties  better,  quite  aside  from 
wanting  him  for  his  sake,  when  he  was  there. 
And  she  liked  better  still  the  change  which 
her  poor  inadequate  attentions  produced  in 
him.  She — as  you  say  you  did — beheld  him 
grow  younger,  more  alert,  more  in  league 
with  things.  It  never  occurred  to  her  yet 
that  he  could  get  out  of  it  more  than  a  sip 
of  the  draft  he  had  always  thirsted  for. 
Tina  never  dreamed  then  of  his — his  appoint- 
ment! She  but  happily,  gratefully  watched 
the  skin  tighten  over  his  lank,  interesting  face 
— heard  the  lisp  go  out  of  his  voice,  and  the 
least  little  lyrical  ring  and  modulation  creep 
into  it.  Cannot  you  imagine  her  joy  when 
other  people  apparently  saw  it,  too?  When 
other  people  everywhere  began  to  'take 
him  up'?  When  at  last  she  realized  that  she 

38 


THE  PRINCESS  OF   TORK 

had  exceeded  her  wildest  hopes  of  doing 
for  him? 

"Then  his  appointment  came.  He  ran  to 
her  at  the  first  rumor  and  suspicion  of  such 
a  thing,  and  asked  her,  if  you  please — 
through  sheer  excess  of  humility  and  glori- 
fication, I  expect — how  she  had  managed  it! 
He  talked  to  her  then,  after  the  first  gasp  of 
incredulity  was  lived  down,  like  one  who  had 
been  transformed  into  a  victor  by  celestial 
intervention.  But  Tina — you  were  right 
about  that  much — Tina  was  the  proud  one ! 
You  should  have  seen  her!  She  almost  even 
wanted  to  share  her  joy  then  with  Minnie 
Gutterson.  "It  seemed  such  a  pity  not  to. 
And  she  really  would,  I  believe,  have  sent 
him  back  to  her  for  a  time — reminded  him 
at  least  that  he  ought  to  go — if  she  hadn't 
feared  how  bad  it  might  be  for  him. . . .  Minnie 
Gutterson  represented  to  her  the  chains  and 
shackles  of  his  former  commonplaceness. 
He  had  never  until  now  risen  above  common- 
placeness. He  had  aspired  up,  to  be  sure, 
from  the  depths  to  the  surface.  But  Minnie 
Gutterson  was  the  surface — the  scum — that 
had  impeded  so  long  his  possible  progress 
higher.  What  if  all  the  tentacles  of  her  stuff 
and  nonsense  got  another  tight  grip  on  him? 

4  39 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

No.  Tina  couldn't  have  sent  him  back  to 
Minnie — if  only  for  his  own  sake.  Of  course 
she — Tina — would  have  missed  him,  mean- 
while, besides.  He  was  the  likeliest  person 
who  had  leavened  her  princessly  monotony 
in  years. 

"Between  her  and  Icarus  things  drifted 
and  grew  to  a  crisis.  He  would  question  her 
of  love — of  love  that  should  endure — the 
same  love,  between  the  same  two  people,  in 
the  same  house,  with  the  same  hearth  and 
all,  their  whole  life  through.  Tina  was 
divorced,  you  know.  Perhaps  she  didn't 
altogether  understand  him,  much  as  she 
wanted  to,  and  although  she  tried  to  be  very 
tolerant  of  his  ideas.  Perhaps  she  frightened 
him  unintentionally.  But  Tina's  a  very 
truthful  person,  and  she  didn't  pass  those 
sincere  endearing  queries  of  his  over  as  you 
might  have  done.  She  very  likely  told  him 
all  she  thought  or  felt.  And  thereupon 
Icarus  would  want  to  know — he'd  conscien- 
tiously ask  her,  at  least — from  time  to  time, 
whether  or  not,  if  she  could  only  get  outside 
the  limits  of  Washington  for  a  while  (as  if 
Washington,  D.  C.,  mattered  to  Tina's 
views!),  she  mightn't  think  and  feel  some- 
what differently.  At  any  rate  it  evolved— 

40 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

the  general  trend  of  their  talks  did — the 
possibility  of  their  having  one  little  'spree* 
together. 

"He  kept  referring  to  it  for  weeks  to  come. 
Tina  was  amused,  and  touched,  and  willing 
to  humor  him.  For  her  it  was,  after  all, 
a  perfectly  simple,  innocent  plan  to  put 
through.  For  him — well — it  lay  beyond, 
out  of  reach  of  practicable  daily  life.  It 
was  like  a  dream.  'It  couldn't  happen,' 
he'd  say.  *  It's  too  nice  to  come  true.' 

"  So  it  befell  they  decided  that  one  of  these 
days — some  time  in  the  dim  future — they 
should  go  to  New  York  on  the  same  train! 
Dine  together  quite  alone  in  a  big  dazzling 
restaurant !  Have  supper  and  perhaps  dance 
a  few  rounds!  Icarus  actually  dreamed  so 
dizzily  far  as  to  think  they  might  dance  a 
little  together!  .  .  .  Rather  touching,  don't 
you  think,  that  such  a  wee,  easy  plan  should 
have  had  such  allure  for  him? — should  have 
seemed  such  a  momentous  undertaking  ?  But 
oh,  it  did !  Deciding  upon  it  even  as  definitely 
as  that  was  a  great  step.  It  was  decided  upon 
on  the  eve  of  that  Christmas,  too  —  on 
the  eve  of  the  day,  as  it  happened,  when 
you  saw  and  heard  him.  send  that  vessel 
to  Ecuador.  Tina  believes  that  that  was  his 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

high-water  mark.  From  then  on  he  rose 
and  rose.  Until  the  day  came!  That  day 
was  the  day  after  you  left  Washington. 
Tina  repeats  those  dates  shamelessly  still! 
You  remember  what  you  said  he  said  to  you 
that  last  night?  Well,  you  would  have 
thought — Tina  says — to  see  him  en  route  for 
New  York  the  next  day,  that  he  was  bound 
for  the  Elysian  isles  half  timorously! 

"Anyhow,  the  train  journey  was  a  great 
success.  It  was  the  divinest  May-day  they 
ever  saw.  The  sky  was  as  blue  as  mid- 
summer, with  little  wispy  flecks  of  clouds 
spellbound  in  it  here  and  there.  And  the 
trees  were  all  white  or  pink  or  tender  green. 
They  could  seem  to  smell  them  through  the 
sooty  windows.  They  heightened  their  satis- 
faction by  making  believe  they  hated  to  be 
in  that  fetid  train,  doomed  to  an  evening  of 
tiresome  city  play.  They  looked  at  the  men 
and  women  in  the  fields  and  villages  they 
swept  by,  and  feigned  to  envy  them. 

"But  the  town  seemed  to  them — when 
they  arrived — at  least  Tina  thought  it  did — 
as  springlike  as  a  garden  atwitter  with  birds 
and  ablow  with  flowers!  There  are  spring 
moods,  you  know,  that  the  city  suits  better 
than  all  the  ruralism  in  the  world.  Tina 

42 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

was  rapt  in  one  of  them — perhaps  so  rapt 
that  even  if  Icarus  had  shown  any — any 
nervousness  over  their  adventure,  she  would 
not  have  observed  it. 

"And  the  dinner  went  all  right.  The 
restaurant  was  fairly  dazzling.  Icarus  or- 
dered what  he  meant  to  be  the  acme  of  fes- 
tive meals — tomato  soup,  beefsteak,  chicken 
salad,  and  ice-cream.  And  afterward  they 
drove  away  in  a  hansom  cab — he  had  a  par- 
ticular desire,  he  said,  to  drive  with  her  to 
the  theater  in  a  hansom.  He  took  her  hand 
and  told  her  he  had  never  been  so  happy  in 
all  his  life. 

"But  as  the  hansom  slowed  down  in  line 
by  the  curb  to  let  them  out  at  the  crowded 
entrance,  a  man  bowed  to  him  from  the  side- 
walk. Icarus  lifted  his  hat.  He  got  it 
back  onto  his  head  somehow.  Tina  stared 
at  him. 

"'I  didn't  see/  she  explained.  'Who  was 
it?  Some  of  your  great  conferees?  I  should 
so  liked  to  have  bowed  to  him!' 

"Yet  Icarus  didn't  speak.  He  had  grown 
paler.  A  stark,  terrified  expression  set  over 
his  face.  The  awryness  of  nose  showed 
plain.  When  he  stuttered  his  answer  feebly 
out  it  seemed  to  Tina  that  that  old  lisp  was 

43 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

all  she  could  hear.  It  sounded  like  a  pin 
drawn  over  glass. 

"'No,'  he  stuttered,  'no.  It — it — was—- 
was— Minnie's  aunt's  brother-in-law!' 

"Ineptly  he  went  through  the  passes  of 
helping  her  to  dismount.  She  helped  him 
pay  the  cab.  He  dropped  the  envelope  con- 
taining the  tickets  in  the  foyer.  Tina  found 
it  and  picked  it  up.  He  hardly  could  thank 
her.  He  tottered  along  by  her  side  somehow, 
and  stumbled  after  her  into  his  seat. 

"She  talked  of  the  play  to  him.  In  re- 
sponse, he  would  mention  something  he  saw 
on  the  stage,  and  forget,  and  mention  it 
again.  The  intermissions  were  intermina- 
ble. Tina's  chair  got  very  hard.  Icarus 
didn't  know  what  to  do  with  his  long  legs. 
He  kept  taking  off  his  eye-glasses  and  wiping 
them  when  she  talked  to  him. 

"He  managed  to  say  to  her  on  their  way 
up  the  crowded  aisle  that  he'd  forgotten 
something,  something  very  important  at 
home,  and  must  return  to  Washington  on  the 
midnight  train.  .  .  .  Tina  didn't  argue.  She 
let  him  go.  He  turned  upon  her  in  the  hotel 
office  a  beseeching  glance  she  will  always  re- 
member. And  so  he  went.  And  in  a  day  or 
two  she — she  went  back  to  Washington  alone. 

44 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

"That's  Tina's  whole  story.  It's  every 
bit  she  knows.  Do  you  blame  her  now  for 
anything?" 


IV 

"  I  think,"  I  replied,  rather  disappointedly, 
"that  Icarus  was,  to  say  the  least,  distinctly 
tactless.  But  why  should  he  have  behaved 
so  just  at  sight  of  Minnie's  aunt's  young 
brother-in-law  on  the  sidewalk?" 

"It  wasn't  the  brother-in-law  he  thought 
of!  It  was  Minnie.  Minnie  Gutterson  loomed 
there  of  a  sudden  vicariously.  Haven't  you 
been  telling  me  how  vicarious  Minnie  could 
be?" 

"But  why  should  the  thought  of  even  her 
have  affected  him  as  if — as  if  an  earthquake 
had  struck?" 

"  It  was  like  an  earthquake  to  him — she  was 
precisely  like  an  impending  upheaval.  He'd 
been  addicted  to  her  bosh  so  long  that  he'd 
never  been  able  to  put  her  entirely  from 
mind,  you  see.  She'd  been  there  lurking  in 
the  background  all  the  time,  and  he'd  been 
dreading  and  dreading  lest  she  pop  out." 

"I  don't  see  that  her  popping  out  once 
then,  though,  should  have  been  necessarily 

45 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

disastrous — after  he'd  already,  with  such 
clarity  of  choice  and  conviction,  kept  her 
back  so  unremittingly  for  the  princess." 

"Because  Minnie  loomed  at  a  crucial  mo- 
ment. Don't  you  know  how  disastrous 
earthquakes  can  be  in  moments  of  birth, 
death,  love,  and— and  such  things?" 

I  nodded  stupidly. 

"At  any  rate,  Icarus  *  funked'  the  prin- 
cess," I  said. 

"  Don't  speak  of  Tina  as  if  she  had  tempted 
him,  dared  him  not  to!" 

"And  that's  the  whole  reason  she  broke 
with  him,  is  it?" 

"What  else  could  Tina  do?" 

"Except  perhaps  give  him  another 
chance?" 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  how?" 

"  Poor  Icarus !  It  wasn't  his  fault  that  the 
princess  had  found  him  so — so  unreasonably 
wonderful." 

"Icarus  was  wonderful.  You  acknowl- 
edged yourself  he  was  that  Christmas  morn- 
ing. Icarus  Brown  was  headed  for  s  upreme 
distinction." 

"Ever  since  the  day  of  Miss  Gutterson's 
dinner?" 

"I've  given  you  all  the  dates  Tina  has." 

46 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 


"I  confess,  of  course,  I'd  have  broken 
with  him  myself  for  less." 

"Tina  didn't  do  any  'breaking,'  you 
understand." 

"  Well — whatever  you  choose  to  call  it." 

"He — Icarus  Brown — never  came  near 
her  afterward.  That  was  all.  Never  called, 
never  telephoned,  never  anything." 

I  could  feel  the  moisture  start  out  over  my 
face  as  the  truth  of  it  gradually  sank  in. 
And  all  at  once  I  remembered  that  we  were 
at  a  dinner-party,  surrounded  by  a  glare  of 
lights,  and,  while  I  continued  to  stare  at  her, 
the  whole  of  our  conversation  sounded  utterly 
unreal.  From  far  and  near  the  vast  babble 
of  a  drawing-room  seemed  closing  in  on  us. 

"Why,  why!" — I  almost  shouted — "when 
the  very  chairmanship  of  the  board  was  at 
stake— why  didn't  he?" 

She  smiled. 

"I  don't  blame  the  princess  for  anything," 
I  ranted — "I  don't  blame  her  for  taking  his 
job  away!" 

"Poor  Tina.  It  isn't  her  fault  you  think 
her  so  unreasonably  wonderful." 

"There's  no  occasion  for  modesty  on  her 
part,  I'm  bound  to  say!" 

"  Do  you  suppose  even  the  most  powerful  of 

47 


UNDER   THE  ROSE 

her  beaux  would  have  taken  her  word  for  a 
chairman's  eligibility — she  who  hadn't  even 
finished  The  Hound  of  the  Baskervilles?" 

I  hesitated. 

"Tina  couldn't  have  got  a  job  for — for  Sir 
Galahad!  She  couldn't  have  taken  a  job 
away  from  a  flea!" 

"You  don't  mean  that  he  got  it  and  lost 
it—" 

"On  his  own  merits,"  she  said. 

I  don't  know  what  happened  during  those 
next  of  the  few  remaining  minutes  we  had 
together.  My  confused  emotions  ran  the 
gamut,  I  fancy,  of  anger  and  desire  for  re- 
venge and  despair.  And  then  I  beheld  her 
still  sitting,  in  all  her  soothing  beauty,  oppo- 
site me — showing  me  all  the  sympathy  I  did 
not  deserve.  She  half  put  forth  a  hand.  It 
was  like  a  magic  wand  to  me. 

"  I  never  heard  anything  like  it  in  my  whole 
life!"  I  gasped,  blankly.  But  in  my  heart  of 
hearts  I  had  veered  in  an  instant  to  the 
simple  truth.  I  began — I  began  to  compre- 
hend everything.  "The  princess  is  more 
magical  than  ever,"  I  thought  aloud.  "Only 
she  could  establish  on  a  working  basis — and 
the  whole  miracle  lies  in  that  she  could 
have! — what  personal  vanity  he  was  created 

48 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

with  a  need  of — poor  Icarus!  But  oh,  he 
hadn't  the  distinction  to  let  half-gods  go ! ... 

"Never  afterward  —  no,  no  —  ah,  he 
couldn't  have  swung  down  the  street  like  a 
lover  again!  Naturally  not — ah  no,  never! 
Never  again — in  his  shame — could  he  let  fall 
his  hand  upon  the  board's  long  table  and 
declaim  with  inevitable  fervor,  'Send  that 
vessel  to  Ecuador  at  once!'  .  .  .  His  power 
that  was  born  of  Romance — waxing  as  Minnie 
waned — went  when  his  courage  failed.  His 
prospects  were  inundated  by  his  old  com- 
monplaceness — ' ' 

"Who  knows,"  she  interrupted,  "but  he 
prefers  it?" 

"Because  he  still  loves  the  princess,"  I 
cried. 

"Why — tell  me  why  you  say  that?" 

"  The  princess  must  be  canny,  she  must  be 
deep.  And  she  wouldn't  have  spoken  to  you 
so  kindly  of  Icarus  still  if  he  didn't  still  love 
her." 

My  companion  started  to  say  something, 
but  blushed  silently  as  if  for  the  princess,  and 
only  said: 

"Tina  asked  him  to  dinner  several  nights 
running  after  she  retreated  to  Washington. 
But  he  made  her  not  a  sign." 

49 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"Would  she  receive  him  if  he  came  back 
to  her  now?" 

"  It's  out  of  the  question.  People  never — 
do — come  back.  Never." 

I  groped  for  when  and  where  I  had  heard 
it  before,  and  no  sooner  did  I  remember  than 
she  was  signaling  me  elusively  to  notice 
something;  and  I  turned  to  see. 

Icarus  Brown  was  approaching  us.  Not 
alone.  On  his  arm  was — was  it — ?  Yes,  it 
was.  It  was  Miss  Minnie  Gutterson.  Yet 
had  I  had,  despite  the  blinding  number  of 
guests  and  my  own  absorption  in  one  of 
them,  any  earlier  opportunity  to  catch  sight 
of  her,  I  shouldn't  at  a  glance  have  known 
who  she  was.  She  was  hung  and  festooned 
so  fantastically.  Loops  and  beads  and  frills 
and  bugles  fluttered  or  flared  all  over  her 
bleakness.  She  reminded  me  inconsequen- 
tially of  the  bare,  spare  market-places  in 
small  towns  when  they're  bebannered  and 
tricked  out  for  old-home  week.  Her  dark 
hair  was  filleted  by  an  orange  bandeau.  And 
conscious  of  all  of  her  splendor,  she  showed 
her  coarse  teeth,  and,  in  a  would-be  bold, 
dashing  manner,  put  forth  a  hand. 

What  was  mourning  for  Icarus  was  festival 
for  her.  Through  his  shirking  Romance,  she 

50 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

had  got  nearer  to  it  than  her  rhyme-gutted 
moony  mind  hitherto  conceived  possible. 
She  was  celebrating  more  than  even  her  most 
abandoned  wish  come  true.  For  Icarus 
hadn't  only  been  stirred — as  she  could  never 
have  stirred  him! — but  stirred  by  a  princess 
— a  shining  princess  of  far  lands — who  had 
never  read  a  book,  and  whom  he'd  shirked  to 
his  shame  for  her  who  had  read  so  many. 
Yes.  She  had  gobbled  up  his  shame  with 
the  rest  of  his  ruin.  It  seemed  almost  to  lend 
a  lyric  note  to  her  satiety.  .  .  .  All  this  was 
what  Minnie  in  the  days  of  his  triumph  had 
had  up  her  sleeve.  She  had  been  jilted  for  a 
princess  then,  in  order  in  turn  to  supplant  a 
princess  now !  She  had  lent  an  office  manager 
of  the  Q.  M.  C.  to  get  back  an  ex-chairman 
of  the  U.  S.  Marine  Board! 

"O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting?"  I  muttered 
to  myself,  gazing  at  her;  and  turned  to  be- 
hold another  acquaintance  approaching  us, 
who  knew  Icarus  and  my  beautiful  interlocu- 
tress, apparently,  but  who  didn't,  I  gath- 
ered, have  the  pleasure  of  bows  from  Miss 
Gutterson. 

"  I've  come  to  ask  may  I  take  you  home?" 
he  said  to  her  who  was  so — so  exquisite  beside 
me.  "But  first — let  me  tell  you  the  latest 

51 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

mot  Icarus  has  made.  He  said  to  me  just 
now — he  says  that  a  man  ought  to  be  paid 
five  hundred  dollars  for  attending  a  dinner 
like  this— that  he's  worth  it!" 

She  hesitated — tapped  the  speaker  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  fan. 

"I  tell  you  what  let's  do,  then,"  she  an- 
swered; "let's  all  'chip  in'  once  in  a  while 
and  have  him!" 

She  turned  away,  but  half  turned  back  to 
me  to  add,  "Promise  not  to  be  too  frightened 
to  come  at  least  once?"  . . .  And  to  the  others : 
"Good  night — Good  night,  Mrs. — Brown." 

"Who  is  she?"  I  demanded,  hardly  heeding 
yet  the  full  tragedy  her  last  words  implied. 

Icarus  stepped  apart,  stretching  his  eyes 
after  her,  the  awryness  of  his  face  much  in 
evidence,  his  pendulous  paunch  emphasizing 
his  gaunt  stature — more  shattered  and  shorn 
than  I  had  previously  apperceived — and 
trying  with  a  sadder  and  lonelier  expression 
than  he  ever  used  to  turn  on  me  when  "  great 
issues"  worried  him  in  the  midst  of  shaving — 
trying,  notwithstanding  his  sorrow,  to  weigh 
the  exact  importance  of  that  rejoinder  to 
his  mot.  Minnie  moved  over  and  slipped 
her  arm  through  his  brazenly.  She  was  a 
treasure. 

52 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  TORK 

"Do  not  you  know?"  she  began,  Gutter- 
sonly.  "And  the  world — the  great  world — 
so  rocking  with  it?  You  really  don't  know, 
then,  how  noble,  how  superior,  how  heroic — 
how  illustrative  of  the  essential  and  until  now 
extinct,  only  true  definition  of  Heroism — 
Icarus  has  been?" 

And,  with  an  indicative  glance  toward  the 
fast-disappearing  couple,  and  with  an  "I'll 
tell  you  who  she  is  if  you  want  to  hear!" — 
as  if  it  were  one  more  of  the  things  to  be  il- 
licitly outspoken  about — Minnie  vented  upon 
me  this  information: 

"That  woman  was  Tina,  the  Princess 
of  Tork!" 


II 

RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

Man  is  as  jealous  of  what  he  longs  to  be  as  of  his 
past  self. — BURTON'S  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

"TTAVEN'T  I  ever  told  you  about  my 
•*•  ^  trotting-park  case?"  asked  my  friend, 
Dr.  Maxwell  Faxon,  one  evening,  in  a  tone 
that  indicated  he  wanted  the  floor. 

To  hear  Maxwell  Faxon  talk  about  his 
patients  was  as  far  as  you  can  imagine  from 
like  listening  to  shop.  The  responsibility  of 
having  become  however  eminent  a  nerve 
specialist  or  psychopathist  or  alienist  didn't 
one  whit  hamper  him.  He'd  weigh  some  clue 
or  other  he  came  across  in  a  magazine  story 
with  as  much  seriousness  as  though  he  had 
found  it  in  Freud  or  Adler  or  Jung.  I've 
never  known  a  man  so  successful  in  a  profes- 
sion so  little  biased  by  it.  He  was  almost  too 
ready  to  believe  beyond  his  own  diagnoses, 
no  matter  how  effectively  they  worked  out. 
"I  often  wonder,"  he'd  said  to  me,  earlier, 

54 


RIDERS   IN   THE  DARK 

"how  much  I  have  to  do  with  it.  Oh,  I 
start  the  ball  a-rolling,  perhaps — " 

"And  it  reaches  the  goal." 

"Though  I'm  not  sure  it  isn't  mostly  be- 
cause of  divine  laws  no  science  can  fathom." 

"Which  amounts  for  all  practical  purposes 
to  the  same  thing,  doesn't  it?  ...  But  I  don't 
suppose  the  ball  always  does  touch  the  goal, 
even  for  you,"  I  hastened  to  add. 

He  smiled,  amused,  I  could  see,  to  note  why 
I  swung  back  to  our  metaphor  again.  Such 
a  trifling  perception  on  his  part,  quite  aside 
from  whatever  flattery  it  entailed,  was  gen- 
erally enough  to  restore  his  good  humor. 
And  if  it  was  my  turn  to  smile  when  then  he 
so  casually  introduced  his  "trotting-park 
case,"  I  didn't  smile  for  fear  he  wouldn't 
go  on.  I  only  lighted  another  cigar  and  sat 
back  with  the  comfortable  realization  that 
his  wife  was  away  and  we  still  had  a  large 
piece  of  the  night  before  us. 

"I'm  deuced  if  I  know  whether  I  was  so 
near  warm  as  they  say,  or  not,"  he  prefaced. 

A  fellow  came  to  me  once  for  advice  about 
his  lameness.  It  had  begun,  he  assured  me, 
without  any  apparent  reason  when  he  was 
about  sixteen,  and  he  had  been  X-rayed  and 

5  55 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

orthopedicized  and  osteopathed  all  over  this 
country  and  Europe  ever  since,  without  ob- 
taining an  inkling  as  to  the  nature  of  his 
ailment.  He  still  limped  in  spite,  if  not  in 
defiance,  of  medical  and  surgical  opinion  as 
badly  as  though  one  leg  were  a  couple  of 
inches  shorter  than  the  other. 

Apologetic  for  presuming  I  might  be  of  ser- 
vice to  him,  he  beseeched  me  to  try,  explain- 
ing, as  he  handed  over  various  credentials  of 
his  soundness,  that  he  was  within  the  draft 
age  and  wanted  to  go  to  war.  He  really 
made  me  feel,  after  I  read  them  through  and 
looked  up  to  behold  him  limping  around 
there,  waiting  with  a  strange,  eager  light  in 
his  eyes  for  my  answer,  like  a  village  quack  or 
spiritualistic  healer — the  kind  that  can  be 
trusted,  when  all  legitimate  authorities  fail, 
to  work  no  bodily  harm. 

He  had  wiry  black  hair,  strong,  regular 
features,  and  that  quizzical  gleam  in  the 
forehead  above  the  nose  which  portrait- 
painters  try  so  hard  to  render.  I  took  to  him 
at  the  very  start.  You  felt  right  away  from 
his  address  and  manner,  simple  and  straight- 
forward as  they  purported  to  be,  an  incalcu- 
lable quality  behind.  If  his  face  was  a  bit 
masklike,  as  my  wife  afterward  commented, 

56 


RIDERS   IN  THE   DARK 

it  wasn't  so,  one  could  be  sure,  because  of 
anything  unattractive  he  had  to  cover,  but 
rather  because  of  the  quantity  of  impressions 
he  was  all  the  time  subjected  to.  His  good 
looks  were  veiled  by  that  variety  of  equivocal 
expression  which  comes  from  over-sensitive- 
ness. I  would  have  taken  a  chance  with 
him,  as  far  as  being  bored  went,  on  a  desert 
island. 

And  I  nodded  my  head  at  him  with  all 
seriousness,  though  I  hadn't  the  ghost  of  an 
idea  how  I  fitted  in.  And  he  thanked  me 
discreetly — said  I  was  the  first  person  who'd 
given  him  any  real  hope  for  years.  Heaven 
knows  I  would  have  given  him  a  whole  new 
lease  of  life  if  I'd  had  one!  As  it  was,  I 
couldn't  bring  myself  to  admit  point-blank 
that  I'd  meant  to  give  him  nothing. 

I  invited  him  instead  to  move  over  from 
the  hotel  (it's  an  execrable  hotel,  you  know) 
and  stay  with  us.  We  were  alone,  Johnny 
away  to  school,  and  I  made  it  plain  that  my 
wife  was  used  to  putting  up  worse  than 
him  under  worse  circumstances.  My  mind 
worked  slowly — I  did  give  him  that  much 
discouragement — but  if  he  wouldn't  mind 
taking  a  chance  with  us,  I  had  some  fair  to 
middling  horses,  and  we  could  ride  about 

57 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

at  add  moments  and  see  something  of  the 
country. 

He  looked  at  me  suddenly  as  if  wanting  to 
refuse — as  if  though,  brought  to  bay  by  my 
unexpected  proposal,  he  didn't  quite  see  how 
he  decently  could.  Then  he  pulled  himself 
together — it  was  as  obvious  as  that — and 
asked,  with  rather  a  constrained  show  of 
gaiety,  I  thought — if  "riding"  was  a  neces- 
sary condition  on  his  acceptance,  as  other- 
wise he  hadn't,  "even  for  politeness'  sake/' 
a  single  excuse  to  offer.  "I'll  walk  with 
you,"  he  laughed,  "any  distance.  Walking 
doesn't  one  bit  bother  me!" 

The  emphasis  he  had  seemed  to  lay  on  the 
point,  easy  as  his  talk  became  once  he  pulled 
himself  together,  somewhat  confounded  my 
satisfaction.  I  felt  all  at  once  the  pro- 
fessional interest  stealing  over  me.  It  came, 
I  promise  you,  as  a  great  surprise.  I  had 
scarcely  considered  him  as  a  possible  patient 
up  to  then.  I  had  just  been  terribly  inter- 
ested in  him. 

Well,  the  week  he  accepted  for  flew  by, 
and  though  I  got  more  intimate  with  him 
every  day,  it  wasn't  until  the  interval  was 
about  over  that  I  began  to  see  more  light — 
or  think  I  did.  I  psychoanalyzed  him, 

58 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

Freuded  him,  put  him  through  the  regular 
mill,  but  he  only  met  each  test  more  intel- 
ligibly as  time  went  on.  He  told  me  of  his 
innermost  secrets  as  he  thought,  with  unmis- 
takable candor,  zealous  to  help  me  elicit 
every  detail  and  appreciative  of  just  how  they 
fell  short  of  ideals  he  measured  them  up  to 
and  why.  What  "love-affairs"  he'd  had,  I 
judged,  must  have  been  as  superficial  as  they 
were  ingenuous,  for  he  disclosed,  notwith- 
standing his  freshness  and  all,  a  subdued 
suspicion  of  his  own  incompleteness — almost 
as  if  he  took  for  granted  that  in  all  such 
respects  you  "had  it  over"  him — which  ac- 
counted, perhaps,  for  his  perennial  air  of 
expectancy,  and  perhaps  also  in  part  for  his 
indefinable  charm.  We  walked  about  to- 
gether considerably  across  country,  he  limp- 
ing along  at  a  good  clip  without  it  costing 
him  the  least  effort  or  pain.  I  would  rag 
him  for  not  venturing  to  ride  with  me  when 
I  went,  but  could  get  no  further  embarrass- 
ment from  him  on  that  score,  and  concluded 
any  I  fancied  he  may  have  shown  before  was 
due  to  accidental  self-consciousness  at  my 
rashly  proffered  hospitality. 

I  could  not  discover  a  promising  twist  or 
slant  in  his  mentality.     It  looked  absurd  on 

59 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

the  face  of  it  in  the  beginning,  as  I've  said, 
that  he  should  have  gone  lame  on  account  of 
a  "complex,"  though  deep-rooted  suppres- 
sions do,  you  know,  crop  out  in  amazing 
forms  in  my  business.  If  I  had  known 
imaginary  cancers  to  develop  from  such 
phantasmal  sources,  it  wasn't  perhaps  so 
far-fetched  to  conceive  of  a  person's  being 
obsessed  of  a  lameness,  provided  I  could 
trace  some  old-forgotten  basis  lurking  in 
the  byways  of  his  subconsciousness  to  found 
it  on. 

But  I  was  satisfied  at  last  that  all  his 
certificates,  notwithstanding  the  wonderful, 
expensive  signatures  they  bore,  were  an  out- 
rage to  his  intelligence,  say  nothing  of  mine, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  putting  it  straight 
to  him  that  his  spending  further  time  with 
me,  except  for  friendship's  sake,  was  sheer 
bunkum.  I  hated  to  do  it,  I  can  tell  you — 
particularly  as  he  never  once  asked  me  how 
I  was  getting  along;  always  seemed,  on  the 
contrary,  willing  to  keep  off  the  subject,  just 
waiting  a  little  breathlessly  with  that  strange, 
eager  light  in  his  eyes  sometimes  when  a  gap 
in  our  conversation  came,  until  I  should  be 
perfectly  prepared  to  announce  what  was  the 
matter  with  him.  The  faith  he  had  in  me 

60 


RIDERS  IN  THE   DARK 

made  it  doubly  difficult  to  dash  his  hopes — 
the  more  so  the  frailer  they  might  be. 

This  was  the  stage  things  were  at  when 
one  day  he  strolled  into  the  laboratory  where 
I  was  working,  and  pointed  eventually  to  a 
vibrometer  that  was  there,  and  asked  me 
what  in  thunder  it  was ;  and  I  told  him  if  he 
would  sit  down  I  would  show  him,  remarking 
carelessly  that  I  didn't,  as  you  know,  take 
much  stock  in  mechanical  means  to  mind- 
reading,  though  there  was  no  harm  in  trying 
it.  I  directed  him  to  clasp  the  glass  bulb  in 
his  hand,  and  listen  hard  to  what  I  said, 
while  I  should  watch  the  purple  liquid  go  up 
and  down  in  the  long  tube  accordingly  as  his 
reactions  varied. 

I  cast  about  rather  desperately  against 
time  for  likely  touchstones  to  say  off  to  him, 
and  stumbled  by  merest  accident  upon  the 
title  of  a  picture-show  I  had  seen  recently, 
the  program  of  which  lay  before  me  on  my 
desk.  Instantly  the  purple  liquid  shot  to 
the  very  tiptop  of  the  high  column;  hung 
there,  dropped,  rose  again,  and  quivered 
midway.  The  title  was  "Ben  Hur." 

I  stuck  to  it,  you  may  guess,  and,  as  you 
may  have  guessed,  too,  was  soon  convinced 
that  the  crux  of  whatever  might  be  in  it  for 

61 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

him  was  the  chariot-race.  But  that  was  the 
furthest  I  got  that  day.  The  chariot-race 
turned  out  to  be  only  the  vaguest  nucleus  of 
what  was  to  come.  A  whole  month  elapsed 
before  I  got  the  whole  story.  He  would  give 
out  bits  now  and  then,  refer  to  things  for  the 
first  time  as  though  I  already  knew  them — 
things  he  was  positive,  when  I  pressed  him, 
he  had  never  forgotten,  though  he  was 
equally  positive  that  he  hadn't  thought  of 
them  before  in  years.  And  thus  we  went  on 
day  by  day  to  the  penetralia  of  all  that  he 
had  forgotten,  of  all  that,  until  my  questions 
and  suggestions  loosened  the  morbid  locks  of 
memory  he  had  been  guarding  unwittingly 
from  himself. 

He  was  born  in  a  small  New  England  town, 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  seacoast, 
and  separated  from  it  by  salt  meadow-land 
and  marshes,  circuitously  interlaced  by  the 
tributaries  of  a  winding  tidal  river.  His 
father  died  when  he  was  four,  and  he  lived 
there  alone  with  his  middle-aged  mother 
until  he  was  thirteen.  His  earliest  outlook 
was  upon  austere  cottage  houses,  inclosed 
by  smug  low  picket  fences,  with  unromantic 
garden  plots  behind  them;  upon  the  school- 

62 


RIDERS   IN   THE   DARK 

house,  ominous  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  two 
main  streets;  upon  the  bleak,  high-steepled 
church  perched  defiantly  at  the  head  of  the 
other;  and  upon  the  two  main  streets  them- 
selves, whose  only  lavishments  were  their 
elm-trees. 

From  the  time  he  was  seven  his  mother, 
who,  notwithstanding  her  inalienable  devo- 
tion to  the  village,  had  her  own  superior  ideas 
of  what  was  due  him,  took  him  to  the  city, 
fifteen  miles  away,  every  Saturday,  to  a 
dancing-class.  The  dance-hall  was  in  Brown's 
hotel,  opposite  a  theater  with  an  illuminated 
cloth  sign  on  the  front,  and  had  a  balcony 
where  real  musicians  played  when  there  was 
a  ball;  and  there  was  a  flexible  floor,  and 
stuffed  sofas  on  narrow  platforms  around  the 
sides,  and  a  huge  chandelier  that  a  man 
lighted  by  a  torch  when  the  early  winter 
dusk  began.  He  felt  dazed  and  different 
there,  as  if  he  had  been  transported  to  an- 
other world.  But  he  hated  the  gaunt,  cruel 
master,  who  waltzed  around  after  them,  a 
violin  to  his  shoulder,  calling  out,  "Cross 
ov-er — faster — faster,"  and  who  told  him  he 
did  it  "like  a  pumpkin." 

One  thing  which  comforted  him  through  it 
all  was  the  prospect  of  the  journey  home. 

63 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

The  little  branch  railroad  ran  its  crooked 
way  among  back  yards  and  sewers  and  ceme- 
teries, but  he  pressed  his  face  against  the 
window  avidly  as  soon  as  the  train  started, 
lost  in  the  changing  sights  as  in  a  dream. 
His  mother  would  nudge  him  and  cry,  "  Look, 
Bob!"  cheerfully  pointing  out  this  or  that, 
while  he  stared  heedlessly  on,  having  better 
things  of  his  own  to  think  about. 

Half-way  on  the  homeward  trip  he  always 
stopped  staring  and  waited  breathlessly  as 
the  train  reached  Aspen  Valley,  where  the 
handsome  young  man  with  the  curly  hair 
and  adventurous  air  of  freedom  got  on.  He 
had  smiled  at  Bob  the  very  first  time,  and 
nodded  his  head  with  an  understanding 
expression,  as  though  they  were  of  equal  age 
and  experience,  and  as  though  Bob's  mother 
wasn't  there  at  all.  He  always  boarded  the 
third  car  from  the  engine  and  chose  a  seat 
on  the  right  near  the  front,  and  Bob  always 
took  pains  to  make  his  mother  sit  in  that  car 
on  the  same  side,  a  little  behind,  so  he  could 
watch  him.  From  the  time  the  man  entered 
the  car  Bob  never  took  his  eyes  off  him, 
except  to  stare  out  of  the  window  whenever 
he  did,  quickly  shifting  his  eyes  away  as  soon 
as  the  man  shifted  his. 

64 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

They  always  began  to  stare  out  particu- 
larly at  a  point  where  the  train  rounded  a 
loop  ten  minutes  before  it  reached  the  home 
stop  at  which  they  all  got  out.  Bob's  heart 
went  pit-a-pat  with  the  excitement  of  being 
in  a  race.  The  train  curved  so  rapidly  and 
swooped  so  that  he  wondered  why  it  didn't 
topple  over;  but  he  kept  gazing  out  of  the 
window  bravely,  spurred  by  a  stimulating 
sense  of  courage  for  the  occasion,  across  the 
wide  salt  meadow-land  and  marshes — on,  on 
around  to  where  those  large  tawny  buildings 
showed  an  instant  before  the  wooded  hillock 
hove  in  view,  whence  the  train  whizzed  past 
a  way  station,  whose  windows  were  boarded 
up,  with  a  hollow  roar.  He  turned,  as  the 
man  turned,  and  strained  his  eyes  back  with 
him  toward  the  vanished  landscape.  Then 
it  was  all  over.  The  man  subsided  in  his 
seat,  and  Bob  did  likewise. 

"What  were  you  looking  at?"  his  mother 
asked. 

"  Trying  to  read  the  name  of  that  station." 

"  It's  where  the  train  used  to  stop  when  the 
park  was  open." 

"What  park?" 

"Hawkes's!  It  was  closed  before  you 
were  born." 

65 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"Why  was  it  closed?" 

"It  was  a  vile,  wicked  place." 

"Why?" 

"You  are  not  old  enough  to  understand. 
Two  people  were — were  done  away  with  there 
once,"  added   his   mother,   sternly,  with   a 
shrewd  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

But,  though  he  teased  her,  she  would 
allow  herself  no  other  indiscretion;  which 
only  served  further  to  enhance  those  home- 
ward-bound journeys  from  the  dancing- 
class,  and  to  make  his  heart  beat  faster  when 
the  little  branch  train  swooped  round  the 
loop  past  the  salt  meadow-land  and  marshes, 
on,  on  by  the  deserted  way  station  with  a 
hollow  roar. 

Always,  when  the  three  of  them  got  out, 
the  young  man  nodded  good-by  to  him  un- 
derstandingly,  without  ever  tipping  his  hat 
to  Bob's  mother,  and  hurried  up  the  street 
so  speedily  that  Bob  could  never  keep  up 
with  him  or  even  see  where  he  went,  though 
he  tugged  his  mother  along  by  the  hand, 
begging  her  to  go  faster.  He  often  thought 
of  asking  her  about  the  man  and  if  she  knew 
who  he  was,  but  always  hesitated,  and  pre- 
ferred vaguely  to  keep  the  matter  to  himself. 
Once  he  did  go  so  far  as  to  say  he  wished 

66 


RIDERS   IN   THE   DARK 

they  lived  at  Aspen  Valley,  and  to  tell  her, 
when  she  wanted  to  know  why,  that  he 
thought  the  yellow  house  by  the  pond  "with 
the  big  barn  and  the  chimneys"  was  the 
prettiest  house  he  ever  saw.  "When  I 
was  a  little  girl,"  said  his  mother,  "there 
were  always  peacocks  roosting  on  those 
chimneys" — a  fact  which  Bob  listened  to 
rather  resentfully,  but  which  recurred  to  him 
often  in  spite  of  himself  when  he  was  alone. 

Two  years  and  a  half  later  the  dancing- 
lessons  were  arbitrarily  discontinued,  and 
though  he  was  much  upset  about  it  at  first, 
he  had  no  answer  to  make  to  his  mother's 
taunting  reminder  that  he  had  always  pre- 
tended to  hate  them,  anyway;  and  he  ceased 
finally  to  complain,  and  let  the  new  trend  of 
events  become  as  a  matter  of  course.  For 
a  time,  however,  he  would  steal  down  to  the 
station  nights  when  the  train  he  used  to  come 
by  got  in,  hoping  for  a  chance  sight  of  his 
friend.  But  in  vain:  the  handsome  young 
man  himself  came  by  that  train  no  more. 

And  the  memories  of  those  earliest  jour- 
neys on  the  little  branch  railroad  got  blurred 
by  subsequent  ones,  and  the  route  it  ran  was 
so  hackneyed  to  Bob  that  he  no  longer 
stared  out  of  the  window  when  he  was  taken 

67 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

to  and  from  the  city*  Yet  the  heroes  of  the 
books  he  read,  describe  them  as  their  authors 
might,  all  had  curly  brown  hair  and  the  same 
adventurous  air  of  freedom  about  them.  To 
such  a  likeness  he  told  his  half -uttered  com- 
plaints when  the  boys'  play  grew  vapid  and 
the  humdrum  lives  of  the  villagers  palled  on 
him  without  his  realizing  it.  There  endured 
for  him  an  embodied  hope  that  somewhere 
beyond  his  cut-and-dried  routine  was  some- 
thing romantic  and  glorious.  In  his  dreams, 
even,  if  he  found  himself  left  alone  at  mid- 
night in  the  schoolroom,  or  chased  by  a  lion 
down  one  of  the  two  main  streets  of  the  vil- 
lage, a  young  man  sooner  or  later  miracu- 
lously appeared  on  the  scene,  smiling  and 
nodding  at  him  understandingly  as  of  yore. 
The  event  itself  did  not  happen  until  Bob 
was  twelve.  He  and  another  boy  named 
Fred  started  off  one  afternoon  during  the 
summer  vacation  to  camp  out  beyond  the 
village  over  the  next  day.  They  carried  a 
small  knapsack  and  a  tent  improvised  from 
old  sheets,  which  Fred's  little  sister  helped 
them  sew  together.  She  had  awaited  their 
expedition  in  awe,  but  never  once,  up  to  the 
last  morning,  let  on  how  dearly  she  longed  to 
go,  too. 


RIDERS   IN   THE   DARK 

Fred  was  adamantine  to  her  pleas,  charac- 
teristically bent  on  devising  as  many  prepara- 
tions and  precautions  as  possible  against  their 
departure,  while  Bob  explained  to  her  super- 
ciliously just  why  a  girl  wouldn't  be  able  to 
stand  it. 

"I  would  be  able  to,"  she  protested.  "I 
can  stand  twice  as  much  as  Fred  can!  I'll 
work  hard  and  I  won't  be  afraid  if  you  leave 
me  alone  to  have  adventures." 

"And  what  would  you  do  if  a  wild  beast 
crept  out  of  a  bush  and  stared  at  you  like 
that?"  asked  Bob,  showing  his  teeth. 

"  I'd  run  up  a  tree  and  you'd  come  take 
me  down,"  she  begged,  her  whimsical  ex- 
pression crowned  by  the  big  bow  of  her 
hair-ribbon. 

She  followed  them  to  the  end  of  the  main 
street,  and  cried  when  they  left  her  standing 
there  waving  after  them.  It  gave  Bob  a 
sad  feeling,  which,  however,  soon  changed 
into  one  of  exultation.  What  were  girls 
good  for,  anyhow?  "Men  must  work  and 
women  must  weep,"  flew  to  his  aid  from  a 
torn  page  in  Franklin's  Third  Reader. 

They  had  promised  to  pitch  their  tent 
somewhere  not  too  far  away  and  within 
calling-distance  of  a  house,  but  they  labored 

69 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

on  for  a  mile  or  more  without  Bob's  coming 
to  any  decision  as  to  a  place.  He  rather 
liked  to  do  things  with  Fred,  despite  the  lat- 
ter's  lack  of  imagination,  for  Fred  afforded 
the  necessary  minimum  of  companionship, 
after  all,  was  easy  to  manage  if  you  knew 
how,  and  seldom  obtruded  opinions  except 
on  untemperamental  details  Bob  wasn't 
interested  in. 

The  road  thus  far  had  stretched  along 
changelessly  between  low-lying  hills  on  the 
right,  and  wide  salt  meadow-lands  and 
marshes,  dotted  over  with  the  cocks  of  the 
early  summer  crop  that  had  just  been  mown ; 
but  now  it  turned  sharply  inland  across  the 
hills.  Straight  ahead  was  only  a  footpath 
that  dipped  down  around  the  east  side  of 
one  of  them,  along  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
open. 

"Let's  go  down  there,"  Bob  suggested. 

He  had  taken  that  path  a  few  times  with 
his  mother  when  they  used  to  search  the 
woods  for  maidenhair  ferns,  but  so  long  ago 
that  he  had  until  now  forgotten  it,  and  won- 
dered where  it  led  to;  for  it  came  back  to 
him  now  that  they  never  used  to  get  far  in 
that  direction  before  his  mother  said  it  was 
time  to  be  going  home. 

70 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

But  the  path  seemed  even  prettier  than  he 
had  remembered.  Trees  grew  on  both  sides 
farther  down,  so  that  the  boys  caught  only 
glimpses  of  those  wide-open  stretches  which 
extended  so  far  seaward.  Thence  they 
entered  a  wood,  so  thick  that  they  paused 
inside  it  a  moment,  facing  each  other  queru- 
lously. The  scrambling  flight  of  a  bird 
through  some  underbrush  made  their  aimless 
wondering  more  pronounced  in  the  silence. 
It  was  quite  dark  under  the  shadow  of  the 
hill;  they  had  got  started  later  than  they 
intended,  and  what  with  loitering  along  the 
way  to  rest  from  their  burdens,  it  was  well 
after  six  and  the  sun  was  already  beginning 
to  set. 

"There's  no  house  anywheres  round  here," 
Fred  complained. 

Bob  laughed,  shivering  delightedly. 

"You  wait,"  he  cried,  "while  I  run  up  that 
hill  and  see  where  we  are." 

And  not  delaying  for  an  answer,  he  laid 
down  the  knapsack  and  dashed  pellmell  into 
the  woods  and  up  the  steep  slope.  His  heart 
was  beating  hard,  and  he  was  trembling  and 
out  of  breath  when  he  reached  the  rocky 
summit.  But  he  thrust  his  hands  deep  into 
the  pockets  of  his  knickers,  and,  though  his 

6  71 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

stature  was  small  and  his  years  not  many, 
felt  the  full  scope  of  his  eminence. 

First,  a  loud  screeching  whistle  rent  all  the 
vast  spaces.  And  then  the  little  branch  rail- 
road train,  its  lighted  windows  making  a  trail 
of  flaming  spots  against  the  afterglow,  swooped 
around  the  loop  and  whizzed  past  a  station 
with  that  old  hollow  roar  just  below  him. 

He  knew  where  he  was — that  much  of  his 
recollections  was  all  he  was  conscious  of. 
Hawkes's  Park  itself  must  be  down  there. 
He  turned  to  look,  but  the  bulk  of  the  hill 
cut  off  his  view,  and  he  could  see  only  a 
street  that  seemed  to  lead  to  where  the  park 
ought  to  be.  Yes,  that  wooden  bridge 
crossed  the  railroad  tracks,  and  the  path  they 
were  taking  would  surely  bring  them  to  the 
park  if  they  kept  ahead.  A  moment  longer 
he  stood  there,  with  no  definite  thoughts  or 
memories  to  brood  over,  laved  in  the  beauty 
of  the  fading  country,  the  chill  of  the  summit 
breeze  thrilling  him. 

"We're  all  right!"  he  shouted  to  Fred 
scarce  down  the  slope.  "There's  a  place — 
I've  seen  it  before!" 

"Anybody  living  near  there?  I  don't 
believe  it — it  would  be  too  good  to  be  true," 
reasoned  Fred,  indigenously. 

72 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

"Of  course  there's  nobody  near,"  Bob 
wanted  to  exclaim,  and  to  say:  "It's  a  vile, 
wicked  place.  It  was  closed  before  you  were 
born.  Two  people  were — " 

But  he  controlled  himself.  Perhaps  it  was 
just  as  well  not  to  harp  on  that  part  now,  in 
case  Fred's  scruples  got  the  better  of  him. 
Everybody  knew  what  sort  of  place  Hawkes's 
Park  really  was;  Fred  must  know  there'd 
been  a  murder  committed  there  once — he'd 
known  it  since  he  didn't  know  how  long. 
Funny,  though,  people  never  made  more 
point  of  such  a  thing,  when  they  took  such 
pains  to  teach  you  facts  so  uneventful! 

"All  the  better  if  nobody  's  near,"  he 
concluded. 

"What  could  be  the  use  of  our  calling  out 
then?"  Fred  asked. 

"But  there's  a  building,"  argued  Bob, 
absently  picturing  in  his  mind's  eye  how  it 
would  look — tawny  colored,  large,  gloomy. 
"We  didn't  say  we'd  be  within  calling-dis- 
tance of  people.  Besides,  it's  braver  not 
to." 

Fred,  who  could  not  cope  with  ideas  so 
unpuritanical,  looked  suddenly  weary  and 
forlorn. 

"You  take  the  knapsack  for  a  change  and 

73 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

let  me  cany  the  tent,"  Bob  compromised. 
"Come  on." 

"Don't  drag  the  tent  that  way;  you'll 
spoil  it,"  objected  Fred. 

They  were  soon  knee-deep  in  brakes,  the 
tender  foliage  of  which  gave  out  a  sweet, 
dismal  odor  as  they  swished  their  way 
through.  From  fresh  woods  they  came  to  a 
stunted  forest  where  the  tree -trunks  grew 
gnarled  and  one-sided,  and  the  low  branches 
flattened  themselves  perversely  into  a  roof  to 
obscure  the  sky.  Whenever  there  loomed 
any  lighter  patch  before  them,  Bob  urged 
that  they  were  almost  there  at  last;  and 
only  showed  his  disappointment  each  time 
by  quickening  their  pace  and  vowing  they 
would  arrive  in  another  few  minutes. 

"What  do  we  care  if  it  is  dark?"  he 
ventured. 

"We  haven't  any  matches  to  waste." 

"Are  you  frightened,  Fred?" 

Bob  stopped  to  make  sure. 

"Will  you  wait  again  while  I  run  ahead 
and  see?  I — I  won't  be  long." 

With  which  he  set  off,  secretly  determined 
to  reach  the  park  himself,  however  far  it 
might  be.  But  he  hadn't  run  more  than  a 
hundred  yards  or  so  before  he  came  to  a 

74 


RIDERS   IN   THE   DARK 

clearing  at  the  foot  of  a  high  ledge,  where 
the  dwarfed  forest  apparently  ended,  and 
whence  the  path  on  the  other  side  followed 
the  cliff  through  gigantic  pines,  which  mur- 
mured and  hushed  themselves  so  in  awe 
above  him  that  he  wondered  for  the  first 
time  if  it  was  perfectly  safe.  And  then, 
without  any  warning,  after  another  sharp 
bend  and  a  sudden  short  descent,  he  emerged 
dumfounded. 

He  beheld,  below  him,  several  high-wheel 
sulkies  driven  leisurely  around  the  oval  race- 
course. In  the  great  grand  stand  across  the 
oval  were  loitering  figures  whose  cigars 
flared  intermittently  through  the  dimness. 
Aloofly,  on  stilts,  a  high  water-tank  empha- 
sized the  desolate  miles  of  meadows  and 
marshes  that  stretched  beyond.  The  rest 
must  be  hidden  by  those  sheds  and  stables 
to  the  right,  outside  of  which,  just  a  long 
stone's  throw  from  where  he  stood,  three 
horses  hitched  in  a  line  to  posts  were  being 
brushed  down  and  curry  combed.  He  could 
hear  the  motion  over  their  sleek  hides,  and 
the  splashing  of  water  in  pails,  and  hap- 
hazard voices.  But  he  stole  forward,  im- 
pelled to  see  more ;  and  when  he  saw  crouched 
down  among  the  high  grasses. 

75 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

For  "Hawkes's  Hotel"  gleamed  upon  him 
in  great  letters — the  illuminated  cloth  sign 
bedecked  it  wantonly  against  the  solemn 
hills  behind,  as  if  to  vaunt  jubilation 
where  jubilation  was  least  invited.  And 
shadows,  passing  and  repassing  within  its 
shuttered  windows,  fell  fleetly  across  the  long, 
roofless  veranda,  in  mockery  of  whoso  said 
men  did  not  come.  Even  as  Bob  watched 
a  group  rushed  up  the  steps  and  disappeared, 
slamming  the  screen  door  after  them. 

Too  confused  to  focus  upon  what  he  saw, 
he  sent  his  eyes  away  over  the  rest  of  the 
scene,  sought  the  path  in  terror  lest  he  be 
overtaken,  stumbled  up  through  the  pines 
and  across  the  clearing  into  the  stunted 
forest,  calling  out:  "Fred!  Fred!  It's  me! 
Where  are  you?  I'm  coming,  Fred!  I'm 
coming!" 

"Did  you  find  it?"  quavered  Fred,  clinging 
close. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  were  lost!" 

"Is  it  too  far?" 

"Let  me  take  your  hand." 

"Don't  forget  the  knapsack." 

When  they  came  to  the  clearing  Bob  said, 
in  a  hushed  voice: 

"This  is  the  place." 

76 


RIDERS  IN  THE   DARK 

And  to  forestall  any  questions,  though  he 
did  not  definitely  intend  not  to  tell  Fred 
what  he  had  seen — if  indeed  he  definitely 
intended  anything — he  attracted  Fred's  at- 
tention to  the  quantity  of  small  dead-wood 
that  was  available  for  their  fire,  and  to  a  level 
spot  that  was  exactly  right  for  their  tent. 
He  struck  his  matches  guardedly  for  the 
kindling  Fred  gathered,  and  as  soon  as  a  blaze 
got  started  watched  Fred  array  the  sand- 
wiches and  hard-boiled  eggs  they  had  brought 
upon  the  moss,  in  a  sorry  attempt  at  the  way 
it  might  have  been  done  at  home.  Fred's 
chief  speculation  between  mouthfuls  seemed 
to  be  how  to  put  the  tent  up  best,  which  so 
absorbed  all  curiosity  as  to  whatever  was  to 
be  seen  farther  on  that  Bob  grew  conscience- 
stricken  and  could  listen  or  eat  no  longer. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  look,  Fred?" 

"What  for?" 

"Just  thought  you  might  like  to,  that's 
all." 

"We'd  ought  to  get  settled  before  it's  any 
darker." 

This  offer  refused,  Bob  stirred  himself 
accordingly  when  Fred  finished,  eased  by 
the  thought  that  to  do  so  was  to  atone  in  a 
measure  for  his  indirection.  Hither  and  yon 

77 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

he  drove  himself,  to  hunt  for  the  sort  of 
longish  branch  Fred  wanted;  but  he  could 
not  apply  his  mind  to  the  task.  He  would 
pause  on  the  edge  of  the  pine  grove  and 
wonder,  cramped  by  that  same  nervous  pain 
in  the  stomach  he  used  to  have  nights  when 
his  mother  sent  him  down-cellar  to  fetch 
another  log. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,  Fred — "  he  began 
again,  moving  nearer. 

Fred  toiled  on,  regardless. 

"  I  saw  a  barn  over  there." 

"  What  kind  of  a  one?  In  good  condition?" 

"We  might  go  see." 

He  meant  it  only  as  another  forced  step 
toward  confession,  and  dreaded,  even  as  he 
said  it,  lest  it  be  acted  upon. 

"This  is  pretty  damp  here.  We  may 
catch  cold,"  Fred  observed,  unexpectedly. 

But  it  wasn't  possible  for  them  to  go  spend 
the  night  in  that  great  barn  with  all  those 
horses,  was  it?  If  they  met  any  one  they 
could  explain  and  ask  permission,  though — 
couldn't  they?  .  .  .  Bob  yearned  valiantly 
through  his  fears. 

"Suppose  any  one  '11  steal  our  things?" 
Fred  calculated,  with  his  habitual  anxiety, 
stamping  out  a  sudden  flame. 

78 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

A  thin  curtain  of  mist  hung  over  the  vale, 
translucent  from  the  new-risen  moon.  The 
grand  stand  was  formless  in  it,  and  the  high 
water-tank  showed  but  eerily  as  they  emerged 
from  the  pine  woods;  and  Bob,  half  disap- 
pointed, half  relieved,  led  on  more  intrepidly 
to  where  the  stable  ought  to  be. 

To  his  amazement  the  sliding-doors,  out- 
side which  those  three  horses  had  been 
hitched  so  short  a  time  since,  were  closed. 
A  small  swinging-door,  set  in  one  of  them,  was 
fastened  only  by  a  plug  thrust  through  a 
hasp.  He  signaled  to  Fred  to  wait  while  he 
listened.  Not  a  sound.  He  drew  out  the 
plug  and  listened  again.  He  opened  the 
door,  and  after  another  hesitation  stuck  his 
head  into  the  blackness.  It  seemed  all  right. 
A  horse  whinnied  faintly  as  if  having  a  bad 
dream;  but  perhaps  Fred  wouldn't  hear. 
So  he  shut  the  swinging-door  again,  staying 
Fred's  threatened  interruption  by  a  gesture, 
fastened  it,  and  slid  open  one  of  the  others 
for  them  to  enter. 

They  held  each  other  tightly  by  the  hand, 
and  tiptoed  forward,  with  only  chinks  of 
light  to  guide  them.  Fred  stumbled  against 
something  and  cried  out;  Bob  released  his 
hand  to  put  over  Fred's  mouth,  and  with  his 

79 


UNDER   THE  ROSE 

other  searched  around  in  the  air  to  feel  what 
the  object  was.  It  was  a  wagon-wheel. 
The  wagon  was  full  of  hay !  Bob  made  Fred 
touch  it.  Together  they  climbed  up  the 
wheel  to  the  rail  of  the  rack,  and  lay  down, 
with  their  arms  around  each  other's  waists, 
trying  to  quiet  the  crackling  hay,  their 
bodies  palpitating. 

"Are  you  going  to  say  your  prayers?" 
whispered  Fred. 

"No.     'Sh!     You  mustn't  talk." 

"Goodnight,  then." 

"Goodnight." 

Their  hold  relaxed.  Bob  kept  on  his  back 
tensely,  afraid  to  move  again  just  yet  for  the 
noise  it  might  make,  staring  at  the  chinks  of 
light  and  counting  them.  The  horses  were 
all  breathing  steadily,  steadfastly.  Why 
did  they  use  ammonia  on  the  horses?  That 
horse  whinnied  piteously  now,  as  if  in  a 
nightmare.  He  didn't  see  how  he  could  pos- 
sibly stand  it  much  longer;  he  wished  he 
were  tired  and  comfortable  like  Fred.  Would 
Fred  sleep  like  that  if  he  knew  he  were  in 
Hawkes's  Park?  .  .  .  Bob  gloated  contemptu- 
ously to  himself.  He  unbent  a  leg.  He 
stretched  out  the  other.  He  sat  up.  He  got 
onto  the  edge  of  the  rack.  What  was  that? 

80 


RIDERS  IN  THE   DARK 

"Fred?"  he  whispered. 

Hearing  that  it  was  perfectly  still  again,  he 
slid  down  to  the  floor,  possessed  by  the  desire 
to  be  on  his  feet  if  nothing  better.  But  no 
sooner  had  he  got  that  far  than  a  noise — an 
actual  rattle  this  time — took  away  all  his 
strength.  Perhaps  this  wouldn't  have  hap- 
pened if  he  hadn't  left  the  hay !  Should  he 
creep  back  to  the  top  and  see?  As  if  to  allay 
all  doubts,  the  swinging-door  opened  in- 
ward; a  heavy-set  shape  appeared  in  the 
door-space;  something  that  he  was  holding 
glittered;  and  he  glanced  around  clandes- 
tinely, backed  inside,  and  pulled  to  the  door. 

For  just  a  moment  there  was  not  a  sound — 
followed  by  the  tap-tap  of  footsteps  nearer 
and  nearer.  They  ceased  during  another 
hideous  interval;  came  on;  less  near  now, 
but  coming  now  in  the  same  direction, 
coming  toward  him,  nearer!  That  horse — 
that  same  horse — whinnied  wildly. 

"Our  Father  Who  art  in  Heaven  .  .  ." 

A  hiss,  a  swashing  stab,  a  dumb  cry  of 
agony,  cut  short  Bob's  prayer.  Somebody 
gasped,  something  fell  ponderously,  while 
horses  struggled  up  in  their  stalls.  The 
echoes  died  away.  Tap-tap  went  the  reced- 
ing footsteps.  And  light  poured  in  again, 

81 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

the  shape  silhouetted  there,  thick-set  and 
awful,  the  glitterless  thing  it  held  dripping 
upon  the  floor. 

"Fred!  Fred!  Are  you  awake?" 
Actuated  by  forces  greater  than  fear  or 
curiosity,  Bob  found  his  way  beneath  the 
wagon,  groped  along  the  square  barred  win- 
dows of  the  stalls  where  horses  were  lying 
down  once  more  already,  and  reached  the 
door.  What  acrid  odor  was  it  suffusing  the 
place?  The  swinging -door  would  not  yield. 
Dared  he  slide  one  of  the  main  ones  yet  to 
see?  ...  It  looked  quite  peaceful  outside. 
The  mist  was  sectored  in  curious  shapes,  and, 
through  a  clear  gap  just  above  him,  the  moon 
rode  benignly.  He  stepped  out,  hurrying 
off  in  another  moment  around  the  corner, 
lost  in  the  shade  of  the  stables  and  sheds 
beyond. 

A  garden  of  pumpkins  lay  suddenly  be- 
tween, but  he  had  no  time  to  circle  it.  Once 
free  of  the  turgid  darkness,  duty  transcended 
all  else.  Thoughts  of  his  own  safety  but 
came  and  went,  no  more  deterringly  than 
the  bats  that  darted  low  on  him  and  flitted 
past.  His  chance,  his  moment,  had  come, 
and  he  would  be  dauntless,  while  Fred  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  home-bound  villagers  in  the 

82 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

barn.  Like  a  messenger  of  old  he  must  risk 
any  perils  to  bear  tidings  of  what  bloody 
menace  threatened  their  midst. 

Not  a  person  was  in  sight  when  he  reached 
the  hotel.  The  windows  were  too  high  for 
him  to  peek  in  from  the  edge  of  the  pumpkin- 
plot,  but  lights  still  leered  through  the  shut- 
ters, and  he  could  hear  laughter  and  loud  talk 
and  the  clinking  of  glasses.  A  little  abashed 
on  account  of  his  age  in  the  face  of  it,  though, 
he  shrank  from  asking  admittance  at  the 
front  door,  and  slunk  to  the  back  crest- 
fallenly,  keeping  his  distance  there  to  avoid 
the  clutter,  awed  by  the  mass  of  hills  rising 
so  near  on  the  other  side.  Among  those 
thickets  at  the  bottom  of  the  slope  would  be 
just  the  place  where  the  heavy-set  brigand 
was  lurking!  Better  to  return,  he  was 
thinking,  when,  quicker  than  the  thought, 
flashed  an  object  down  through  the  air, 
thudding  with  a  crash  almost  at  his  feet. 

Too  dazed  to  do  otherwise  he  looked  up, 
only  to  see,  leaning  far  out  one  of  the  top- 
most windows — the  only  one  lighted  to  the 
rear  of  the  hotel — a  frail  figure  waving  a  white 
scarf  frantically.  He  flourished  a  hand  in 
answer,  stepped  farther  from  the  building  so 
that  his  view  should  be  unimpeded,  and 

83 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

stretched  out  his  arms  to  her,  unable  to 
decipher  her  clearly  against  the  brightness  of 
her  dormer,  but  sure  of  her  beauty  and 
thrilled  by  her  recognition  of  his  manliness; 
since  it  must  be  for  herself  and  not  for  his 
sake  that  she  was  imploring. 

Soon  aware  of  his  attention,  she  pointed 
downward,  withdrew  her  scarf  and  pointed 
desperately  down  again  to  where  that  flashing 
object,  whatever  it  was,  had  fallen.  He 
found  it.  It  was  a  metal  hand-mirror,  the 
glass  in  which  had  ominously  broken  from 
the  fall ;  but  attached  by  a  hair-ribbon  to  the 
handle  was  a  paper  neatly  folded;  and  he 
unloosed  it,  regained  his  vantage-point  in  a 
trice,  and  held  it  straight  up  for  her  to  see. 
She  saw !  She  waved  in  relief,  and  let  flutter 
the  scarf  from  her  hand  to  him  through  the 
darkness.  But  when,  after  he  caught  it,  he 
looked  up  again,  she  had  gone  and  the  light 
in  her  window  been  extinguished. 

As  far  as  possible  from  thinking  what 
course  to  take  next,  he  tucked  the  scarf 
tenderly  beneath  his  shirt-waist  and  made 
for  the  front  of  the  house,  heedless  of  whether 
he  was  seen  or  who  should  pursue  him.  Nor 
did  he  hesitate  now  to  mount  the  wide  steps, 
and,  despite  the  revelry  within,  to  hold  his 

84 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

missive  to  the  rays  of  the  first  shuttered 
window. 

Who  was  "B.  R."?  It  was  more  like 
trying  to  recall  a  face  that  he  had  seen  than 
a  name.  But  he  couldn't  afford  to  wait,  for 
the  tap-tap  of  those  footsteps  was  coming — 
coming  across  the  long,  roofless  veranda.  He 
unfolded  the  paper  and  read : 

"Everything  has  been  discovered.  Save 
me  to-night  or  I  shall  be — " 

Bob  tried  to  scream  out;  struggled  to 
speak  the  name  of  him  whom  he  should  call 
upon.  Seized,  lifted  off  his  feet,  he  was 
being  carried  to  his  doom — under  a  hall 
chandelier  so  high  it  must  have  been  lighted 
by  a  taper,  past  a  stately  upholstered  sofa  on 
its  slender  dais,  through  another  door  into 
the  blazing  brightness  of  the  room  where  the 
crowd  was  assembled. 

"A  young  vagabond — a  prowling  young 
horse-thief  I  sleuthed  from  the  stables," 
bragged  his  accuser,  flinging  him  loose  with 
a  guttural  snarl. 

"I'll  answer  for  him!"  was  proclaimed  in 
a  voice  that  Bob  trembled  to  hear.  "Let 
go  his  collar  now!" 

At  the  various  tables  were  grouped  some 
score  of  country  turfmen  and  trainers,  the 

85 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

latter  in  high  starched  collars  and  dark 
braided  coats,  with  vests  unbuttoned  and 
heavy  gold  watch-chains  dangling,  their 
shrewdly  chiseled  faces  all  flushed  and  genial. 
Most  were  standing,  and  each  held  a  goblet 
in  his  hand  toward  the  center  of  the  tables; 
while  the  waitresses,  sloppy,  buxom,  and 
hectic,  gaped  enraptured;  or,  snatching  a 
half -drunk  glass  from  their  trays,  held  up  the 
dregs  for  the  toast  that  had  just  before  been 
proposed. 

But  the  loud  talking  and  laughter  had 
ceased ;  all  turned  in  suspense  upon  the  cause 
of  their  interruption.  And  until  that  voice 
cried  out  for  him,  Bob  had  not  seen  who  held 
the  center  of  the  stage.  The  tall  young  man 
with  the  curly  hair  was  romantically  seated 
there,  a  whip  balanced  in  his  hand. 

"Remember  who's  boss  here,"  growled  the 
other. 

"Remember  who's  won  the  race  to-day!" 
shouted  a  chorus  of  voices. 

' '  Wait !"  commanded  the  hero,  who  arose  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  Bob,  who  grasped  it 
gloriously.  "Come  sit  by  me.  A  chair  for 
him,  please,  at  my  side — no,  here!  Now 
drink  to  Bob  Raymond  if  you  will — a  friend 
of  mine  who  has  been  insulted  by  our  host!" 

86 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

"A  friend  of  yours  is  a  friend  of  ours!  Oh, 
here's  to  Bob  Raymond!  Bob  Raymond! 
Bob  Raymond!" 

And,  as  his  name  rang  out  over  the  hotel, 
Bob  saw  the  fat  proprietor  sink  into  a  chair 
and  tilt  it  against  the  wall,  his  thumbs 
crooked  in  the  armholes  of  his  vest,  his  face 
bloated  with  rage,  his  thick  white  ankles 
dangling  insolently.  ...  If  only  Fred  could 
see  him  now!  The  villagers  would  open 
their  eyes  for  once  if  they  did!  .  .  .  But  he 
felt  the  bunch  her  scarf  made  under  his 
shirt-waist.  It  was  necessary  to  act  quick  to 
save  her!  What  was  this  pomp  and  these 
honors  bestowed  in  comparison  to  her  plea? 
He  turned  to  his  rescuer. 

"How  can  I  ever  thank  you?'*  he 
murmured. 

The  man  leaned  close,  a  hand  on  Bob's 
shoulder,  and  said  in  his  ear: 

"Why  is  it  so  long  since  I've  seen  you?" 

"You  stopped  coming  on  that  train," 
replied  Bob,  chokingly. 

"Only  when  you  stopped  coming,  too," 
Bob  thought  he  heard  him  say. 

But  the  proprietor  was  glaring  at  them. 

"I've  something  important  to  tell  you," 
Bob  whispered.  "Please  go  out  with  me 

7  87 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

behind  the  hotel  at  once.  Oh,  it's  not  for 
myself!"  he  pleaded. 

Everybody  was  moving  about  and  saying 
good  night,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  The 
proprietor  was  venting  his  wrath  on  the 
waitresses,  who  scurried  indignantly  this 
way  and  that  to  clear  the  tables.  And 
though  Bob's  long-lost  companion  must  be 
impatient  to  go,  he  lingered  yet  a  moment, 
mingling  in  the  general  chatter  with  a  tact 
Bob  was  quick  to  appreciate,  so  satisfied,  in- 
deed, by  the  wise  example  that  he  half  forgot 
his  errand  over  his  interest  in  what  befell. 

A  drunken  trainer,  whose  burnsides  needed 
trimming,  expatiated  on  the  day's  event: 
"I'm  a  poor  man,  Mr.  Raymond,"  he  said, 
as  if  congratulating  Bob  himself,  "and  I 
hadn't  to  spare  as  much  as  I  put  in  the  sweep- 
stakes, but  I'd  V  bet  any  man  against  the 
whole  field,  includin'  the  geldin'  I  was 
drivin',  on  Bessie  H.  herself,  bless  her! — and 
a  stronger  field  you  never  held  a  rein  in — 
head  and  head,  Mr.  Raymond,  except  his 
mare  Bridget"  (pointing  a  thumb  at  the  pro- 
prietor), "who  was  spavined  in  the  hind  leg 
and  went  lame  on  the  first  quarter-mile — 
and  never  a  break  in  the  whole  race!  But 
why/'  he  demanded  of  a  little  man  with 

88 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

sharp,  beadlike  eyes,  "did  yer  prick  and  dock 
your  Lillie?  Why  deprive  any  mare  of  the 
tail  that  adorns  her?  I  don't  like  to  see  it 
draggin'  on  the  dirt  like  a  lady's  dress, 
but—" 

"Sure,  there's  moderation  in  the  matter," 
put  in  a  new-comer. 

"Some  people  nowadays  seem  to  look  only 
for  a  tail — a  long,  big,  luxuriant  tail," 
scorned  the  little  man. 

"Never  did  I  know  a  horse  with  so  much 
speed  and  bottom  as  Bessie  H.,"  continued 
the  new-comer,  as  if  also  congratulating  Bob. 
"Such  a  gay  and  gallant  style  of  trottin'  as 
she  have!  And  I'll  tell  my  wife  even  if  she 
leaves  me  for  it,  the  energy  of  how  she 
shoVed  her  haunches  in  that  second  time  she 
goes  past  the  draw-gate!  I  never  see  any- 
thing to  equal  her  strong  loin  and  the  terrible 
resolution  with  which  she  all  the  while  went 
up  to  the  bit!" 

"Wherever's  her  namesake  a-hidin'?" 
queried  the  first  speaker.  "You'd  think 
she'd  be  revelin'  here,  for  her  pride  in  him, 
instead  of  absent — even  though  Bridget  did 
trot  a  bit  off." 

Bob  stole  a  glance  at  the  landlord's 
clenched  fist. 

89 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

"Is  Bessie  H.  very  tall?"  he  asked  his 
friend,  timidly,  proud  to  take  some  part  in 
the  conversation. 

"Fifteen  and  two.  .  .  .  Mr.  Raymond  will 
be  my  guest  for  the  night,  so  a  light  for  us, 
please!"  he  called  out  to  the  owner  of  the 
unfortunate  Bridget,  and,  putting  an  arm 
through  Bob's,  led  him  to  the  door. 

The  crowd  formed  in  a  circle  around  it, 
cheering  as  they  passed  out  to  follow  the 
crotchety  shape  that  preceded  them  malevo- 
lently up  the  grand  staircase.  They  nodded 
good  night  to  him  above,  after  they  crossed 
the  threshold  of  their  chamber,  but  he  only 
handed  in  the  candle,  grunted,  and  shut  the 
door  upon  them. 

"Hark!"  whispered  Bob's  companion. 

A  key  was  being  turned  outside. 

"Make  him  unlock  it!  We  must — her 
life  is  in  danger!"  whispered  Bob. 

But  the  young  man  tiptoed  to  the  win- 
dow, thrust  open  the  sash,  and  calculated. 
"  Quick!"  he  said,  softly,  returning.  "What 
is  the  matter?  You  can  trust  me.  Tell  me 
everything!"  .  .  . 

"That  is  everything?"  he  gasped  when 
Bob  finished. 

"  She  gave  me  this,"  Bob  reluctantly  con- 
go 


RIDERS   IN   THE   DARK 

fided,  producing  the  scarf  from  under  his 
shirt-waist. 

The  man  took  it  from  him  and  pressed  it 
to  his  lips — as  he  should  have  done  himself, 
Bob  thought  too  late,  wanting  to  ask  for  it 
back;  but  the  man  hurried  him  to  the  win- 
dow, climbed  out,  and  bade  him  follow. 
"Hold  tight,"  he  warned.  "I  won't  let  you 
fall!"  And  Bob  threw  his  arms  around  his 
hero's  neck. 

For  an  instant  there  was  nothing  but  space 
below  them.  Then  by  a  lurch  of  his  body 
from  the  sill  the  man  caught  a  grape-vine 
trellis,  and  waited  for  the  echoes  to  die  down ; 
after  which  step  by  cautious  step  they  de- 
scended. Hand  in  hand  they  picked  their 
way  noiselessly  to  the  rear.  Not  a  light 
anywhere.  But  Bob  knew  her  window.  It 
was  open!  "We'll  find  one — there's  one  in 
that  shed,"  the  man  assured  him.  .  .  .  And 
all  the  time  there  hummed  through  Bob's 
ears  the  rhythm  of  his  old  dancing-master's 
violin,  going  "  Swizzy-swizzy-swiss — swizzy- 
swizzy-swiss"  to  the  accompaniment  of  their 
footsteps. 

The  ladder  they  brought  failed  quite  to 
reach  her  dormer,  but  the  man,  bidding  Bob 

91 


UNDER   THE  ROSE 

watch  at  the  base  and  steady  it,  flew  off  up 
the  rungs  like  a  fireman,  hoisted  himself,  and 
disappeared  within.  And  Bob  stood  his 
ground  loyally,  a  prey  to  great  loneliness  and 
strange,  bitter  emotions,  haunted  now  by  the 
realization  that  he  himself  should  have 
mounted  the  ladder  to  the  rescue  of  his  be- 
loved, resentful  at  the  same  time  that  his 
companion  had  left  him  on  guard  there  below, 
so  unprotected.  But  he  kept  the  lookout. 
He  peered  behind  up  the  umbrageous  slope, 
to  right  and  to  left  of  him  along  cluttering 
ash-heaps  past  the  jagged  outlines  of  a  wood- 
pile, around  a  group  of  hogsheads  far  at  the 
other  end;  conscious  of  that  nervous  ache 
in  his  stomach,  and  lifting  his  leg  and  bending 
his  knees  to  stop  it. 

His  heart  leaped  up  at  the  first  sight  of  them 
coming ;  but  how  could  he  bear  to  stand  still 
and  watch  them  like  that? — she  clinging,  as 
he  had  just  before,  and  him  she  clung  to  for- 
getting aught  else?  The  sight  blasted  hopes 
it  crystallized  into  being.  Bob  was  forlorn 
for  the  want  of  her  arms,  and  shabby  in  the 
eyes  of  her  savior.  If  he  had  only  kept  the 
scarf  she  had  given  him !  "Swizzy-swiz-swiss- 
swiss — swizzy-swiz-swiss,"  went  the  old  re- 
frain through  his  heart  as  he  held  the  ladder. 

92 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

They  were  as  one  to  him,  one  wild  love  lost, 
the  loss  of  which  made  them  both  dearer. 

Her  hair,  uncaught  by  any  ribbon  now, 
fell  like  a  frame  of  dull  gold  about  her  face, 
which  seemed  designed  more  for  laughter 
than  for  tears,  so  did  the  dimpled  corners  of 
her  lips  belie  her  piteous  gaze.  She  took 
fleetingly  the  hand  he  dared  in  his  failure  to 
understand  put  out  for  her;  she  came  closer, 
she  enfolded  him.  And  it  was  then  as  if  her 
need  were  for  him  alone,  and  as  if  to  be 
needed  thus  would  prove  a  boon  he  had 
never  conceived  the  beauty  of  before.  He 
shone  in  the  splendor  of  it;  felt  worthy  of 
that  flattering  signal  from  his  tall,  handsome 
friend  to  give  a  hand  with  the  ladder  across 
the  pumpkin-bed.  And  he  let  her  go — he 
let  slip  her  beauty  from  so  near  him;  and 
she  meekly  gathered  up  the  skirt  of  her  dress 
and  followed  them  both,  who  were  united  by 
her  need. 

On  from  shed  to  stable  they  sped  faster, 
he  between,  his  hands  linked  to  theirs  tightly, 
recking  not  though  his  shadow  under  the 
meandering  moon  fell  short  in  comparison, 
the  time  and  the  rhythm  of  swizzer-swiz- 
swiss,  swizzer-swiz-swiss  in  his  ears.  But 
his  throat  hurt  when  at  the  big  sliding-doors 

93 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

he  was  left  to  guard  again.  If  he  could  only 
have  protested  loudly  that  it  wasn't  fair! .  . . 
What  was  he  waiting  for?  Was  Fred  there 
inside?  Was  it  only  to-day  they  had  left 
home?  Or — 

His  curly -haired  friend  came  out  weeping, 
wringing  his  hands.  Tears  rolled  down  his 
handsome  face  and  his  tall  body  trembled  as 
though  he  were  a  child.  Bob  rushed  toward 
him.  But  the  girl  intervened.  She  flung 
her  arms  around  his  friend's  neck.  Bob 
shuddered.  Then  she  turned  to  him,  too. 
Oh,  how  frail  and  lovely  she  was,  how  ful- 
filling the  look  she  could  give!  Her  softness 
was  like  how  he  wanted  the  wind  to  feel  when 
it  blew  over  his  bed  warm  evenings  when  he 
couldn't  sleep!  To  be  with  her  would  be  to 
be  as  the  locusts  in  the  meadows,  like  brooks 
running  down  hills  to  the  sea,  like  what  made 
the  birds  sing  and  everything  bud  and  blos- 
som! But  before  he  reached  her  side  his 
friend  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  whispered 
something  in  her  ear.  And  Bob  burned  to 
thrust  him  back. 

"No — tell  him!"  she  cried  out,  passion- 
ately. "He  ought  to  know  what  has 
happened!" 

The  other  shook  his  head.    A  spark  of 

94 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

hatred  for  him  flared  in  Bob's  breast.  And 
he  turned  to  Bob  and  asked,  in  that  incom- 
parable way  of  his : 

"You're  a  good  rider?" 

Too  late  to  answer,  ashamed  of  his  anger, 
Bob  watched  where  the  curious  mists  swirled 
over  the  oval  track,  and  the  grand  stand  and 
the  high  water-tank  stood  out  starkly  in  the 
silvery  quiet;  yearning  for  a  secret  half 
revealed,  which  it  beggared  him  not  to  share 
utterly.  Oh,  mightn't  he  even  keep  what  he 
had?  Perhaps  to  be  brave  was  the  most  he 
could  expect!  As  if  in  answer  they  reap- 
peared at  the  door,  leading  out  the  three 
horses,  and  he  knew  from  their  faces  they 
longed  to  tell  him  if  they  only  could.  It  was 
so  kind  of  the  man  to  ask  him  to  shut  the 
door;  he  hoped  Fred  didn't  hear. 

"Won't  you  give  her  a  lift,  Bob?" 

Bob  flew  to  her  assistance,  mortified  not  to 
have  noticed  the  opportunity  before;  and 
quick  to  the  saddle  his  lady  he  flung!  His 
friend  helped  him  in  the  same  way  to  mount 
one  of  the  other  horses,  then  sprang  upon  the 
third  himself,  trotting  forward  gently  and 
motioning  them  to  follow. 

At  the  top  of  the  wooded  hillock  Bob,  so 
engrossed  in  not  falling  off  that  he  had  for- 

95 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

gotten  her  presence  almost,  suddenly  heard 
her  sobbing.  Their  companion  was  nowhere 
in  sight !  Should  he  call  out?  He  leaned  to 
her  shoulder.  Once  more  he  felt,  but  as  for 
the  first  time,  as  he  had  always  wanted  to 
feel. 

"How  can  I  ever  thank  you?"  she 
murmured. 

"Why  haven't  I  seen  you  in  so  long?"  he 
found  himself  asking,  imitatively,  from  a 
guilty  lack  of  what  to  say. 

"You  stopped  coming  on  that  train,"  she 
replied,  chokingly. 

"He  told  you  that,  didn't  he?  ...  You 
know  me.  You  can  trust  me.  Tell  me 
everything." 

She  laughed  toward  him,  so  near  that  her 
hair,  aided  by  the  wind,  brushed  his  cheek. 
"Only  because  you  stopped  coming,  too,"  he 
thought  she  was  going  to  say;  when  just 
then  the  man  came  trotting  back,  and  took 
her  bridle,  and  commanded  Bob  to  hasten, 
in  a  voice  it  excited  him  to  hear. 

They  swept  down  the  last  edge  of  the 
wooded  hillock,  past  the  little  way  station 
whose  windows  were  boarded  up,  and  clat- 
tered across  the  railroad  bridge,  along  a  road 
Bob  had  never  taken  before.  He  would  ask 

96 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

them  over  and  over  where  they  were  going, 
but  they  could  only  look  at  each  other  and 
shake  their  heads  at  him  mournfully,  and 
whip  up  their  horses.  So  that  he  had  grown 
accustomed  to  the  sad  joy  of  his  plight — his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  wide  salt  meadows  and 
marshlands  which  stretched  so  far  eastward 
— by  the  time  the  church  at  the  head  of  one 
of  the  two  main  streets  loomed  in  view. 
There  was  the  schoolhouse  at  the  head  of  the 
other!  They  trotted  down  under  the  still 
elm-trees.  At  the  foot  of  the  street  stood 
his  mother's  house,  a  little  apart  from  the 
rest,  a  little  whiter,  without  a  curve  or  a 
pilaster  even,  with  an  air  of  leading  a  pro- 
cession and  setting  an  example  for  all  the 
others.  He  pointed  it  out  to  her;  but  they 
only  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled  on  him 
pityingly.  He  thought  of  his  bed  empty 
within;  his  mother  now  was  snoring,  prob- 
ably—  Oh,  he  had  no  remorse,  however 
much  he  must  suffer!  He  sat  straight  and 
pulled  the  reins  tighter.  The  horses'  hoofs 
echoed  upon  the  hard  gravel. 

At  the  station  he  knew  so  well  they  dis- 
mounted and  gave  him  their  reins  to  hold, 
as  if  whatever  they  would  have  liked  there 
was  no  other  way.  The  water  in  the  small 

97 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

tidal  river  that  wound  beyond  the  station 
was  sluggish  and  low;  he  smelled  that  acrid 
odor  of  mud  and  dead  fish,  and  put  his  hand 
over  his  nose;  and  they  did  the  same,  laugh- 
ing without  noticing  him.  Why  didn't  they 
help  him?  Why  didn't  they  hear  his  calls? 
The  screeching  whistle  of  a  train  was  coming 
nearer  and  nearer.  Wouldn't  his  friend  with 
the  curly  hair  help  him  just  this  once  more? 
Didn't  she  need  him  now  at  all? 

"Take  me  down,  take  me  down — don't 
leave  me!"  he  implored. 

"What  is  a  good  hotel  for  us  to  stay  at?" 
his  friend  asked,  flatteringly,  a  large  gold 
watch  in  his  hand. 

"Brown's  Hotel!  It's  the  best  hotel  you 
ever  saw,"  Bob  answered  through  his  tears. 

The  train  rattled  and  banged  into  the 
station. 

"Will  you  save  me  a  little  peacock  some 
time  if  they  have  any?"  Bob  shouted. 

But  she  only  waved  at  him  sadly.  Close 
together,  almost  as  one,  their  bodies  slanted 
forward  an  instant,  as  if  in  vain.  Then  the 
train  started.  They  hurried  up  the  steps, 
followed  by  the  conductor,  who  laughed 
hideously  and  waved  to  Bob  in  derision.  He 
waited  until  the  train  pulled  out  of  sight — 

98 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

until  there  was  not  a  reverberation  or  an 
echo. 

It  was  hard  enough  to  bear  without  his 
having  in  the  midst  of  it  to  reckon  on  how 
he  could  ever  make  the  journey  back  alone 
to  Hawkes's  Park  with  three  horses.  He 
drew  the  reins  of  his,  and  tried  to  turn  the 
others.  Tears  streamed  down  his  cheeks. 
How  could  they  expect  him  to  do  it?  Fred 
would  know  now  better  what  to  do  than  he 
did.  He  had  been  wicked;  he  had  been 
covetous  and  idolatrous;  he  had  left  Fred 
alone  in  a  murderous  spot.  At  sight  of  his 
mother's  house  he  wept  unrestrainedly.  If 
only  he  were  in  his  own  bed!  If  only  he 
could  stop  there  and  cling  to  her!  He 
leaned  down  over  the  reins.  "Help  me,  you 
dear  nice  horses!  Help  me  to  take  you  safe 
and  get  back  to  Fred!"  he  sobbed  aloud. 
After  which  he  sat  straighter  and  held  the 
reins  more  tightly.  Once  more  the  horses' 
hoofs  rang  out  upon  the  hard  gravel. 

Landmarks  that  he  had  forgotten  there 
were  still  to  pass  appeared  inexorably,  one 
after  another,  lengthening  out  the  long  way. 
Those  level  stretches  on  the  left  looked 
more  endless,  and  those  hills  denser  in  his 
loneliness,  and  higher,  on  the  other  side. 

99 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

How  could  he  find  the  road  again  over  that 
wooden  railroad  bridge  to  the  way  station 
whose  windows  were  boarded  up?  Already 
as  he  looked  he  failed  to  recognize  where  he 
was.  This  road  was  too  narrow.  It  was  too 
soft.  Trees  grew  on  both  sides.  .  .  . 

That  old  hollow  roar  filled  all  the  vast 
spaces.  He  could  not  stand  it!  The  horses 
plunged,  they  reared.  But  he  must  stay  on, 
he  must!  The  two  horses  broke  loose.  He 
tried  to  steer  over  closer  to  the  ledge,  crying 
out  in  the  night :  "  I  am  coming  to  you,  Fred ! 
I  am  coming !"  But  he  pitched.  The  ground 
went  from  under  his  feet ;  and  they  trampled 
over  him,  lying  there  alone. 

It  seemed  a  good  while  afterward  that  he 
stood  up  and,  his  hand  to  his  aching  side, 
limped  down  through  the  pines  to  the  mead- 
ow. Pains  sharp  as  sword-thrusts  stabbed 
him  at  each  step  he  took  toward  the  stable. 
But  there,  outside  the  closed  doors,  the  three 
horses  stood,  as  tranquilly  switching  their 
tails  as  if  they  were  hitched  to  the  posts  to 
be  groomed  and  currycombed.  When  he 
opened  the  swinging-door  they  arched  their 
necks,  sauntered  up  the  incline,  and  went 
snifnngly  in,  without  a  sound  or  so  much  as 

a  footfall  being  audible.     Bob  staggered  to 

100 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

the  hay- wagon,  somehow,  and  climbed  the 
wheel. 

The  next  he  knew,  Fred  was  shaking  him 
and  saying  they  ought  to  get  up  and  fix  the 
tent  before  it  was  too  late.  Long  mosslike 
cobwebs  hung  from  the  rafters  above.  The 
barn  was  vast  and  airless.  Bob  glanced 
quickly  at  the  stalls.  They  were  there,  a 
long  row  of  them — battered,  silent,  empty. 
So  all  the  horses  must  have  been  taken 
out  already,  was  his  next  thought,  followed 
by  an  inundating  rush  of  memories  as  he  as- 
sented with  feigned  calm  to  Fred's  proposal. 

But  outside  the  stable  the  mist  was  too 
thick  to  see  anything  else.  A  heavy  sea- 
turn  had  set  in  from  the  east;  it  was  begin- 
ning to  rain.  Fred  led  the  way  impatiently, 
and  Bob,  trying  his  best  to  pierce  the  veil  for 
a  last  sight  of  the  oval  track  and  the  grand 
stand  and  the  water-tank,  followed,  a  hand 
pressed  on  his  painless  hip,  to  the  clearing 
where,  after  a  quick  meal,  they  got  their 
things  together  forlornly  and  started  home. 

Days  and  weeks  afterward,  though,  he  ex- 
pected to  be  called  to  account  any  minute 
for  his  share  in  what  had  befallen  at  the 
park.  He  searched  the  newspapers  sur- 
reptitiously for  news  of  it.  To  meet  the 

1G1 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

village  policeman  on  the  street  made  him  go 
pale.  But  he  remained  stanch  to  his  secret, 
he  never  told  a  soul — least  of  all  his  mother. 
And  when  she  died,  scarcely  a  year  later,  the 
house  was  sold  and  he  was  sent  away  to  school, 
which  left  him  with  no  incentive  to  return 
there,  or  to  speculate  on  Hawkes's  Park  in 
such  terror  of  disclosure.  The  experience 
was  soon,  in  the  new  course  of  events, 
practically  forgotten. 

My  friend,  the  doctor,  stopped  short  and 
perused  me.  "You're  uncanny,"  I  said,  "to 
have  got  precisely  what  everybody  else — the 
authors  of  those  wonderful  certificates — 
failed  to  get  out  of  him.  Yet  why,  even 
although  they  couldn't  get  it,  perhaps, 
shouldn't  they  have  known  enough  at  all 
events  to  see  that  something  real  was  the 
matter?" 

He  smiled  in  satisfaction  at  that;  but  as  if 
his  satisfaction  was  only  because  I  hadn't 
listened,  or,  having  listened,  hadn't  had  the 
brains  to  understand.  Nevertheless,  he  sig- 
nified by  a  gesture  that  he  wouldn't  hold  me 
up  on  account  of  such  stupidity,  and  pro- 
ceeded— which  nothing  could  have  stopped 

him  from  doing — to  explain: 

102 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

It  took  me  a  long  time,  as  I've  said,  to  get 
the  whole  story  at  all  connectedly — less  con- 
nectedly, I  mean,  than  I've  rehashed  it  for 
you,  and  it  took  me  almost  as  long  again  to 
make  arrangements  for  my  next  move. 
Hawkes's  Park's  a  day's  journey  from  here, 
and  I  had  to  go  there  first,  of  course,  by  my- 
self; and  then  there  was  the  New  Brown's 
Hotel,  also,  to  be  planned  for — my  patient 
balked  pretty  hard  at  that.  He  knew  we 
could  find  a  place  to  stay  nearer!  I  had  to 
bully  him  rather.  But  my  wild-goose-chase 
preparations  didn't  pan  out  altogether  badly. 
I  felt  reassured  that  morning  we  started  off 
to  make  the  run. 

You  should  have  seen  and  heard  him  the 
next  day  when  we  visited  his  native  village. 
Much  as  he  went  on  about  how  he'd  always 
hated  it,  how  its  narrow-mindedness  and  pet- 
tiness warped  all  his  childish  dreams — a  point 
of  view  I'd  gleaned  from  his  narrative — he 
was  still  enough  of  a  New-Englander  to  have 
a  sort  of  ashamed  regret  that  it  didn't  look 
better;  assured  me  painstakingly  what  used 
to  be  here  and  there,  and  in  what  awful  ways 
the  trolley-lines  that  stormed  the  two  main 
streets,  along  with  questionable  motor-cars, 
had  since  doomed  the  once  picturesque 

8  103 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

settlement  to  sheer  cheapness.  He  com- 
mented in  horror  as  we  wound  in  and  out 
new  streets  where  only  meadows  and  marshes 
used  to  be.  And  when  we  stopped  at  a  neat 
bungalow  somewhere  among  the  macadamed 
hills  opposite,  he  had  hard  work  to  make  him- 
self believe  where  he  was — say  nothing  of  my 
having  a  friend  there  whom  we  were  to  call 
upon. 

"Fred"  might  have  been  forty,  to  judge  by 
his  clothes  and  ingrowing  demeanor.  He 
acted  his  part  perfectly — greeted  us  as  con- 
servatively as  befitted  the  picture,  and  rather 
grimly  made  himself  known;  but  so  naturally 
withal  that  my  patient,  when  he  began  to 
realize  who  he  was,  grew  too  absorbed  to 
suspect,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  my  com- 
plicity, and  only  kept  repeating  over  and 
over  that  that  man — that  man  before  us! — 
married  and  the  father  of  a  family,  was  once 
the  very  boy  he'd  gone  camping  with. 

"  My  sister — you  remember  my  little  sister, 
Bob? — 's  going  to  France  to-morrow.  She's 
one  of  the  heads  of — " 

He  proceeded  to  extol  whatever  relief  or- 
ganization it  was  she  had  so  deservedly 
earned  so  distinguished  a  part  in,  displaying 
that  vicarious  patriotism  a  confirmed  home- 

104 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

stayer  has  when  a  female  relative  is  off  to  the 
front. 

"Do  you  remember,  Fred,  that  night  we 
went  camping  when  we  were  kids — just 
before  I  moved  away?" 

"To  Hawkes's  Park.     Sure." 

"Who  told  you  it  was  Hawkes's  Park?" 
gasped  my  patient,  blushing. 

"Told  me?  Where  did  you  suppose  I 
thought  we  went?" 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  interrupted,  as 
casually  as  I  could. 

"There  really  warn't  anything  to  tell. 
It  'd  been  closed  up  long  before  we  were 
born." 

"But  it  had  been  opened  again  by  that 
time — he  doesn't  /enow,"  corrected  my  pa- 
tient in  an  undertone,  losing  interest. 

"You've  forgotten,"  Fred  said;  and  to 
me:  "Why,  there  was  a  man  lived  over  near 
Aspen  Valley,  some  place — I'd  always  heard 
tell  about  it.  He  was  one  of  those  hossy 
daredevils,  you  know,  who  had  a  way  with 
the  women-folks  couldn't  be  beat.  The  pro- 
prietor's daughter  fell  for  him,  sooner  or 
later,  and  the  day  of  the  last  race  ever  run 
there  she  fixed  it  so  her  father's  horse,  it 
went  lame  and  trotted  clean  behind;  and 

105 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

her  lover's — that  was  said  to  have  been 
named  after  her — in  the  bargain — won.  The 
old  man  was  suspected,  of  course,  and 
rightly,  as  soon  as  they  disappeared.  That 
was  the  real  genuine  motive  for  their  murder, 
you  know,"  Fred  expounded  with  a  relish,  as 
if  his  very  philosophy  were  exemplified  by 
the  tale. 

"  Nobody  was  murdered,  then  —  they 
escaped!" 

At  these  words,  uttered  in  a  voice  so  dis- 
proportionate to  what  the  occasion  seemed 
to  him  to  require,  Fred  only  looked  at  the 
speaker  condescendingly.  "You've  got  it 
upside  down.  .  .  .  They  found  blood  on  the 
barn-door  sill,"  he  calmly  assured  me. 

"Oh,  that!  That  was  the  blood  of  the 
young  man's  horse,  was  it?  ...  It  was  just  his 
horse  that  was — " 

My  patient's  looks,  even  more  than  the 
folly  he  spoke,  apparently  convinced  his  old 
friend,  beyond  any  hint  I  had  previously 
perhaps  let  slip,  that  there  would  be  no  use 
to  argue;  for  he  turned  to  me  resignedly. 
"Going  to  see  what's  left  of  the  park,  are 
you?  Got  a  purchaser,  eh?  Well,  it's  my 
judgment  he  can  have  it  cheap — in  these 
times,  too !  They  started  aviation  over  there 

106 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

not  so  long  ago,  but  they  learned  it  warn't  no 
place  to  fly  in.  You  never  can  get  that  car 
of  yours  in  there,  now,  no  way — it's  too  God- 
forsaken." 

I  cut  our  visit  as  short  as  I  could,  to  make 
for  the  livery-stable,  where  we  would  hire  a 
conveyance,  I  intimated,  and  drive  the  rest 
of  the  distance  more  comfortably  than  if  we 
walked.  My  patient  offered  no  objections, 
though  what  his  thoughts  were  meanwhile 
is  still  problematical.  But  when  the  livery- 
man, with  a  few  well-chosen  remarks  apropos 
of  our  errand,  went  on  to  say  he  didn't  have 
a  buggy  or  anything  save  a  couple  of  poor 
saddle-horses  available,  my  patient  only 
raised  his  eyebrows  at  me,  half  smiled,  half 
squinted  in  that  incalculable  way  of  his,  and, 
after  the  horses  were,  in  response  to  my  nod, 
brought  round,  limped  to  the  side  of  one  and 
mounted  it  tremblingly. 

The  boarded-up  way  station  was  gone — 
replaced  he  could  not  figure  out  by  what. 
We  slowed  down  across  the  railroad  tracks, 
on  through  a  daisied  field  to  a  path  that 
showed  brown  on  the  wooded  hillock  beyond. 
The  country  had  a  sinister  prettiness  about 
it,  as  if  it  flourished  gaily  on  guilty  memories 
it  concealed.  When  we  topped  the  crest  to 

107 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

go  down  into  the  vale,  the  salt  wind  blew  in 
our  faces  so  strong  that  the  horses  paused 
against  their  will,  their  manes  and  tails 
streaming  out  in  the  gusty  current.  Below 
us  were  the  ruins  of  the  high  water-tank  and 
the  grand  stand — much  as  he  had  described 
them;  and  the  hotel — still  tawny,  to  be  sure, 
but  oh,  so  meager,  so  unimposing,  so  dilap- 
idated! It  was  a  jade  of  a  building.  The 
way  it  was  fashioned,  without  projecting 
eaves  or  gutters,  exaggerated  its  gauntness 
and  height.  Yet  it  represented,  convincingly 
enough  to  make  me  shudder,  the  kind  of 
bleak  New  England  hostelry  that  used  in  the 
old  days  to  lure  thick-stockinged  folk  from 
monotonous  firesides.  One  could  easily  imag- 
ine that  there  once  had  been  the  din  of 
second-rate  race-talk  within  its  lean  walls. 

I  insisted  on  our  going  slowly  around  the 
ancient  oval — where  high-wheel  sulkies  had 
rolled  fast  abreast! — overgrown  now  with 
burdocks  and  plantains,  with  here  and  there 
just  a  bar  of  the  rail  still  standing  on  either 
side.  At  the  watch-gate  we  cantered  out 
toward  the  stable,  and  hitched  our  horses  to 
two  of  the  three  posts  that  stood  there,  and 
entered  through  the  small  swinging-door. 
The  stalls  had  been  lopped  away — by  that 

108 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

aviation  syndicate,  I  expect — and  the  in- 
terior was  one  cavernous  shell,  so  frail  the 
sun  shone  through  each  crack  where  the 
boards  should  have  met. 

"  There  'd  hardly  have  been  a  hay-wagon 
here  the  day  of  a  race,"  I  suggested. 

"Let's  go  to  the  hotel." 

A  push  was  all  that  was  required  to  gain 
our  admittance.  Inside  the  spare  hall,  the 
only  decorations  were  big  lobular  patches 
made  by  the  cobwebbed  laths  that  showed 
through  where  the  unpapered  plaster  had 
fallen,  over  the  portions  of  which  still  clinging 
were  scribbled  graffiti  of  a  low  order.  High 
to  the  ceiling,  a  lithograph  entitled  "Abdal- 
lah"  was  attached  to  a  rusty  nail  by  a  faded 
reddish  cord.  The  original  hall-lamp  frame, 
suspended  by  wires,  still  hung  over  the  newel- 
post — if  you  could  call  it  that — of  the  steep, 
narrow  staircase. 

"No  big  chandelier  that  had  to  be  lighted 
by  a  taper!"  I  reminded  him. 

But  he  hurried  me  thence  to  a  room  he 
seemed  to  know. 

"That  must  have  been  where  the  wait- 
resses came  and  went  that  night,"  he  said, 
determinedly,  pointing  to  a  nondescript  pas- 
sage from  the  corner. 

109 


UNDER   THE  ROSE 

And  the  stairs  creaked  as  they  had  then, 
he  said — however  differently  they  used  to 
wind !  And  across  the  shaky  upper-hall  floor 
he  continued  to  direct  me  accustomedly. 
He  dove,  presently,  past  an  unhinged  portal 
that  all  but  blocked  our  way,  to  the  chamber 
window,  the  sash  of  which,  when  he  tried  to 
raise  it,  fell  out  and  down  with  a  crash  onto 
the  remnants  of  veranda  beneath.  I  looked. 
There  was  nothing — no  trellis,  no  grape-vine, 
no  means  to  descend. 

Up  another  flight  and  still  another  he 
facilely  preceded  me,  into  room  after  room, 
until  we  came  to  one  with  a  dormer.  The 
only  trace  of  its  occupancy  was  a  torn, 
yellowed,  pseudo-Madonna,  tacked  above 
the  stove-hole  on  the  chimney.  He  did  not 
have  to  raise  the  sash  of  this  window,  for 
there  was  none. 

The  window  gave  on  a  deserted  refuse- 
heap.  A  little  way  up  the  stripped  slope,  a 
tattered  weather-worn  hammock  swayed  to 
and  fro  in  the  recurrent  salt  wind  between 
two  pestilential  fruit-trees,  in  a  notch  in  one 
of  which,  to  accentuate  the  perverse  progress 
of  the  desolation,  reposed  a  lichened  bust  of 
William  McKinley. 

I  went  on  staring  at  it  after  he  left  my 
no 


RIDERS  IN  THE  DARK 

side;  and  when  I  turned  to  him  he  sought 
me  abruptly  and  buried  his  head  on  my 
shoulder,  and  wept  like  a  child.  But  he 
would  not  meet  my  eyes.  He  hurried  from 
the  room.  I  could  scarcely  keep  up  with 
him. 

"Wait!"  I  had  to  exclaim. 

You  might  as  well  have  been  addressing  a 
ghost.  He  fled  down  what  was  left  of  the 
veranda  steps  and  disappeared  around  the 
corner  nearest  the  stables.  And  when  I 
came  upon  him,  not  so  much  later,  behind  the 
hotel,  he  was  bent  over  an  ash-heap,  delving 
among  the  chickweed,  digging  feverishly. 

"I've  found  it,"  he  defied  me,  "in  spite  of 
you!" 

I  took  what  he'd  found — what  he  handed 
me  so  gleefully  to  see.  It  was  a  queerly 
shaped  metal  object,  much  corroded.  It 
may  have  been  once  the  relic  of  a  hand- 
mirror. 

"What  you  could  find  in  any  dump!"  I 
scoffed.  "You  never  saw  that  well  before, 
did  you?"  I  espied  it  only  as  I  spoke,  my- 
self; I  hit  on  it  by  sheer  inspiration !  "  Why — 
why  didn't  you  see  that,  too,  then,  do  you 
suppose?  It's  at  least  as  old — and  far 

older — than  anything  else." 

111 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

And  as  he  reached  to  have  his  treasure 
back,  I  hurled  it  into  the  depths.  The 
splash,  the  torpid  sound  of  it  sucked  down 
forever,  didn't  detract,  I  can  say,  from  the 
awkwardness  of  my  position.  I  was  beside 
myself,  also,  with  anger.  I  disgustedly  left 
him  there  to  get  my  horse. 

When  he  reappeared  before  the  stable  door 
his  face  wore  an  uncanny  expression — half 
of  beatitude,  half  of  sullen  contempt.  He 
untied  his  own  horse  and  led  it  by  the 
bridle  after  me;  and  limped  along  thus 
through  all  the  pine  stumps,  around  the 
ledge  by  the  clearing,  whence  extended  a  big 
establishment  of  greenhouses — nothing  but 
glass  and  sunlight  where  the  stunted  forest 
had  been;  no  trees;  just  a  few  haycocks 
scattered  over  plots  on  the  other  side, 
that  had  not  been  filled  in  or  built  upon. 
This  was  indeed  a  short  cut  to  the  main 
road.  . .  . 

I  took  my  place  at  the  wheel,  he  beside  me, 
edged  away  as  far  as  possible  on  the  seat. 
For  the  time  being  I  actually  believe  he 
feared  giving  me  opportunity  to  disillusionize 
him.  (Patients  will  harbor  dear-bought  il- 
lusions, once  they're  disemboweled  like  that, 

above  everything !)    I  could  feel  his  eyes  burn- 

112 


RIDERS   IN  THE  DARK 

ing  into  the  side  of  my  face,  as  though  I'd 
been  his  persecutor. 

I  got  him  into  our  rooms  finally.  He  tore 
up  and  down  there  like  a  madman.  I  said 
whatever  came  into  my  head,  asked  him  any 
old  questions  to  wake  him  from  his  state; 
and  in  the  course  of  them  I  threw  out,  "Did 
you  ever  use  to  wish  your  hair  was  curly?" 

It  worked  like  magic. 

"They  must  have  taken  my  advice,"  he 
softened  to,  in  his  old  beseeching  tone,  pite- 
ously.  "I'm  sure  they  were  here  once;  I  can 
feel  it  still,"  he  murmured,  scanning  the  nine- 
teenth-century appointments  of  our  paneled 
suite.  "And  the  old  theater  stood  over 
there — where  that  office-building  is.  The 
illuminated  cloth  sign — " 

He  caught  his  breath  and  turned  from  the 
window  to  me  blankly.  "You  mean,"  he  at 
last  acknowledged,  "  that  I  never  even  saw 
him.  on  the  train  at  all?  So  that  accord- 
ing to  you  my  seeing  him  at  the  park — five 
or  six  years  afterward — was  only  a  dream, 
within  a  dream?  .  .  .  Prove  it  to  me!"  he 
challenged,  hoarsely,  off  across  the  room 
again. 

But  I  saw,  as  I  watched,  that,  whatever  I 
could  prove,  enough  had  been  proved  already. 

113 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

For  he  scarcely  remembered  in  the  thick  of 
his  tears  to  limp. 

The  doctor  raised  and  let  fall  his  hands 
at  me  in  wonder:  "Bob  Raymond  walked — 
well — 'happily  ever  afterward.'  So  far  as  / 
know,  at  least.  For  he,  too,  went  to  France 
— not  the  next  day,  I  expect — but  .  .  .  Who 
can  tell?  In  the  one  letter  he  wrote  me  he 
said  she  had  the  same  dimpled  mouth,  the 
same  dull-gold  hair,  and  all,  as  when  he  last 
saw  her.  When  she  was  a  child,  mind  you! 
And  her  name — Fred  Haskell's  little  sister's 
name — actually  was  Bessie.  It's  a  common 
enough  name,  of  course! . . .  Let's  go  to  bed." 


Ill 

THE  ONE  HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

"  *DUT,"  Esther  Glynn  still  persisted,  "tell 
-*-^  it  to  them,  Helen;  don't  be  so  old- 
fashioned  all  at  once !  We're  every  one  of  us 
broad-minded,  able-to-understand  and  to- 
st and -any  thing  people.  There  isn't  a  per- 
son here  who  won't  admire  you  more,  who 
won't  be  prouder  of  you,  for  what  you  did. 
It's  the  most  'moral'  story  I  ever  heard." 

"That's  the  trouble,"  objected  Helen  Lan- 
dor,  focusing  her  clear,  logical,  unassuming 
eyes  upon  each  of  us  in  turn,  "it  isn't  a  story 
at  all.  It's" — she  waited  until  she  was  sure 
of  what  she  wanted  to  say — "it  was  only  an 
incident  I  described  to  Esther  one  day  when 
we  were  discussing  the  stupidity  of  men." 
She  recalled  the  occasion  very  simply,  with- 
out any  vindictive  embarrassment  on  ac- 
count of  there  being  three  men  present  to 
hear  her.  "I  happened  to  out- with-it  then, 

115 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

because  it  was  so  illustrative;  but  to  repeat 
it  now  would  be — " 

"Boastful! — she  probably  thinks,'*  said 
Esther,  impatiently.  "I  tell  you"  (Esther 
winked  and  gave  a  little  amused  shrug  in 
George  Kirtland's  direction)  "it's  incompar- 
ably the  best  woman-to-man  situation  in  the 
history  of  the  world." 

Even  George  Kirtland — the  butt  of  her 
humor  (and  how  wickedly  Esther  liked  to 
poke  fun  at  his  hypocritical  prudery!) — 
proclaimed  himself  eager  to  hear;  in  fact 
everybody  was  eager;  and  I  was  glad  to  see 
Helen  struggle  against  our  unanimity  with 
failing  strength. 

We  were  sitting  around  the  fire  after 
dinner,  after  a  strenuous  Adirondack  day. 
The  personnel  of  our  party — but  that  will 
appear  at  least  sufficiently  clear  from  the 
way  or  the  ways  Helen's  story  was  received. 
Paul  King — on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  like  an 
irresponsible  kid  in  his  enthusiasm — called 
out,  "Hurray,  now!  we're  ready!"  And 
Helen  laughed,  ducking  her  head  down  as  a 
signal  of  capitulation.  .  .  . 

"  It  was  the  summer  before  I  was  married," 
she  reflected .  ' '  We  had  the  Clarges  place  that 
summer — the  one,  you  know,  which  sets  in 

116 


ONE  HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

from  the  street,  with  a  little  forest  of  its  own 
— half-way  between  Pride's  Crossing  and 
Beverly  Farms.  I  had  been  dining  one  night 
at  the  Ainleys',  and  had  left  early  so  that  the 
motor  could  take  father  and  mother  to  town, 
where  they  were  going  to  meet  Aunt  Ann  and 
bring  her  back  down  with  them  the  next  day." 

Helen  had  an  odd  gift  for  making  things 
particularly  definite.  She  spoke  rather  slowly 
— I  don't  mean  drawlingly — but  she  pro- 
longed each  word  as  if  she  were  calculating 
right  up  to  the  very  last  consonant  of  it  what 
her  next  word  was  going  to  be.  Just  as  her 
sense  of  humor  was  often  a  trifle  obscured  by 
her  serious  determination  to  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  even  what  might  be  only  amusing,  so 
were  the  most  trivial  details  she  touched  on 
sometimes  enshrouded  in  a  gravity  almost 
comic. 

"It  was  a  wonderful  evening,"  she  said, 
quite  solemnly.  "I  had  made  it  perfectly 
plain  that  I  wanted  to  go  home  alone,  for  I 
didn't  want  to  break  up  the  party  by  taking 
any  one  away  with  me;  particularly  when 
there  wasn't  anybody  there  whom  I  at  all 
wanted  to  take !  .  .  .  I  remember  how  glad  I 
was  afterward  to  be  alone.  I  loved  the  deep 
breaths  of  sea  air.  I  was  a  little  hungry,  too — 

117 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

the  dinner  hadn't  been  very  good."  Helen 
smiled  with  gracious  confidence  in  our 
thoroughly  understanding  such  a  possibility. 
"And  I  looked  forward  to  finding  something 
at  home  which  I  really  wanted  to  eat.  .  .  . 
Well,  father  and  mother  were  waiting  in  the 
hall,  bag  and  baggage,  ready  to  go ;  they  said 
good-by  to  me  and  told  me  to  go  to  bed 
early"  (a  shadow  of  reminiscential  irritation 
crossed  her  face),  "and  at  last  I  was  left 
blessedly  by  myself. 

"I  ate  some  cold  ham  and  salad  which 
Ellen  brought  me,  and  then  I  opened  the 
windows,  and  put  out  the  lights,  and  sat 
there  bathing — literally  swashed"  (the  word 
followed  her  conscientious  effort  at  precision) 
— "in  the  moonlight.  Oh,  it  was  heavenly. 
I  felt  in  that  deliciously  luxurious  mood  of 
realizing  how  much  more  exciting  it  can  be 
sometimes  to  be  all  by  oneself — another  per- 
son there  with  me  would  have  ruined  it,  I 
thought.  One  needed  companionship  for 
certain  things — to  go  shopping,  for  example 
— but  not  then.  I  must  have  sat  there 
nearly  two  hours  dreaming.  .  .  . 

"I  went  over  to  the  piano  and  played  all 
kinds  of  things.  Then  I  somehow  got  started 
on  that  ridiculous  sentimental  song — it's  a 

118 


ONE  HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

good  song,  too — 'All  Through  the  Night.' 
This  was — thank  Heaven — before  the  days 
when  Evan  Williams's  Victor  record  got  to 
be  so  popular.  ...  I  was  right  at  the  part" — 
she  gave  little  geographical  hints  with  her 
forefinger — "  where  it  goes: 

caressed  her 
And  pressed  her 

Once  more  to  my  heart  .  .  . 

And  I  suddenly  started  like  that !  I  screamed 
and  stood  up,  frightened  half  out  of  my  wits." 

We  exclaimed  "Ohs"  or  "  What-was-its" 
or  things  which  sincerely  indicated  the  kind 
of  attention  we  were  paying.  George  Kirt- 
land  had  the  critical  air  of  one  who  dis- 
paraged anything  so  verging  on  the  mel- 
odramatic. Paul  King  giggled  nervously. 
But  Helen  didn't  notice,  so  much  interested 
had  she  become  in  making  each  detail  of 
her  story  accurate. 

"I  thought,"  she  continued,  "that  all  the 
servants  had  gone  to  bed.  But  Ellen  was 
right  there  in  her  white  dress  by  my  elbow! 
'What  are  you  doing  here?'  I  cried  to  her. 
Whereupon  she  muttered  in  her  rapid  way 
that  somebody  had  come — a  man — who  in- 
sisted on  being  let  in.  'Turn  on  the  lights, 

9  119 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

then,'  I  told  her  under  my  breath.  Well,  as 
soon  as  she  did  I  saw — oh,  I  nearly  told 
everybody  who  he  was/"  Helen  looked 
mischievously  toward  Esther  for  encourage- 
ment. "I  really  should  like  to,"  she  re- 
flected; "but" — for  Esther,  too,  was  firm 
on  that  point — "of  course  I  won't. 

"He  was  the  man  who  had  sat  next  to  me 
at  dinner.  He'd  said  a  good  deal  about  com- 
ing along  home  with  me  when  I  left,  and  I  had 
had  an  awful  fear  lest  I  couldn't  keep  him 
from  coming — for  he  was  one  of  those  men 
whose  unlimited  experience  in  his  own  brain- 
less stratum  of  society  has  made  cock-sure  of 
always  being  wanted;  I  don't  believe  even  a 
stray  suspicion  of  anybody's  possibly  having 
a  contempt  for  him  ever  pierced  his  thick- 
tissued  skull." 

"How  old  is — was  he?"  asked  George, 
self-defensively. 

"About  your  age,"  answered  Helen,  with- 
out a  smile.  I  could  see  how  George's 
doubting  manner  fired  her  to  be  as  malicious 
as  she  wanted  to  be;  and  how  when  she 
began  again  her  gaze  rested  serenely  on 
George.  "He's  the  sort  of  man  who  never 
has  outgrown  college  days,  who  has  never 

got  beyond   college   standards  and   college 

120 


ONE   HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

ways  of  measuring  values — never  has  de- 
veloped from  the  great  fellow  he  got  to  think 
he  was  at  Harvard.  Do  you  know  the  kind? 
Tall  and  so-called  handsome;  he  was  the 
most  popular  man  in  his  class;  I  am  sure  he 
was  regarded  as  a  latter-day  Admirable 
Crichton;  just  because  of  his  'rubber-stamp' 
features  and  felicitous  commonplaceness  and 
lack  of  subtlety,  he  was  inevitably  deemed 
competent;  he  himself  was  obliged  to  real- 
ize how  naturally  beneath  him  most  of  the 
fellows  were,  and  how  it  devolved  upon  him 
to  direct  them.  Of  course  men  still  rate 
him  high;  they  heroize  him  —  they  listen 
to  his  stories,  and  take  him  seriously,  and 
think  what  a  devil  of  a  noble  fellow  he  is, 
and  cheer  him  on.  I  can  see  a  host  gather- 
ing round  him  and  screaming  out,  'We  want 
for  President!!!'" 

"I  say,"  interjected  George,  somewhat 
hotly,  "you  can't,  you  know,  know — " 

"He  believes — my  'hero,'  I  mean,"  went 
on  Helen,  sounding  the  note  of  enthusiasm 
for  her  sex,  "that  however  attractive  he  is, 
he  should  nevertheless  be  chivalrous  where 
women  are  concerned,  and  that  he  must 
occasionally — being  the  virile  force  he  is — 

condescend  to  make  love  to  them." 

121 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

At  that  Esther  Glynn  clapped  her  hands 
(she  was  always,  so  Paul  once  said,  a  little 
"Puck-like")  and  arranged  herself  comfort- 
ably and  flutteringly — much  as  a  bird  plumes 
itself  in  the  sunlight.  She  was  delighted 
with  the  progress  of  events. 

"I  suppose,"  argued  George,  trying  to 
suppress  his  anger — "  I  suppose  you  thought 
he  was  in  love  with  you!" 

Helen  brought  her  teeth  out  over  her  lower 
lip  for  an  instant  and  nodded  in  mock 
tolerance.  "I  asked  him,"  she  said,  as  if 
responding  to  the  question,  "to  sit  down. 
And  he  did.  He  sat  down  beside  me  on  the 
sofa.  .  . .  He  remarked  that  he  was  on  his  way 
home  when  he  had  heard  me  singing.  I  said 
I  didn't  see  how  he  could  possibly  have 
heard  me — so  far  from  the  road"  (she 
weighed  it  judiciously) — "and  thereupon  he 
told  me — oh,  very  eloquently,  I  assure  you! 
I  suppose  it's  some  such  eloquence  that 
makes  him  so  liked  at  all  the  clubs — he  told 
me  that  he  'could  have  heard  me  anywhere.' 
.  .  .  You  can  imagine  why  I  became  rather 
diverted  by  the  thought  of  playing  up  to  the 
touching  ideal  of  me  which  he  had  so  charac- 
teristically formed.  I  really  did  do  it  pretty 

well,  too." 

122 


ONE  HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH   MERIDIAN 

"I  bet  you  did!"  Paul  ejaculated. 

"I  tried  hard  enough,  anyway.  And  we 
had  the  most  driveling  idiotic  passage  that 
ever  was. . . .  He  even  told  me  finally  how  his 
one  hope — his  one  hope,  I  guess,  of  being 
generous  to  me! — had  gone  when  he'd  heard 
that  evening  for  the  first  time  that  I  was 
engaged  to  be  married.  Think  of  it!  ... 
He  wanted  so  to  know,  he  said,  when  I  was 
going  to  be  married,  and  just  where  '  Tom* 
was.  ...  I  told  him  Tom  was  in  Paris.  He 
suggested  I  must  be  lonely.  I  said  I  was. 
1  Funny,'  I  added,  quite  sincerely  (acciden- 
tally saying  something  on  my  own  account, 
only  because  it  happened  to  interest  me  to 
say  it).  'By  now,  in  Paris  he's  probably — 
let's  see — five  hours  later — he's  probably 
asleep!' 

"'Probably!'  my  visitor  echoed,  with  such 
a  silly  implication  in  his  voice  that  I  cer- 
tainly said  nothing  more  on  that  subject. . . . 

"'Upsetting,  isn't  it?'  he  swung  round  to, 
'how  the  hours  vary  everywhere.  When  I 
was  on  the  Pacific — have  you  ever  been?' 
he  murmured,  trying  to  seem  devoted. 

"  I  shook  my  head. 

" '  There's  a  place  on  the  Pacific,  you  know, 
where  you  lose  a  whole  day!' 

123 


«  c 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

I  was  listening  in  spite  of  myself. 
'You  see/  he  prodigally  explained,  'the 
time  gains  an  hour  for  every  fifteen  degrees 
of  longitude.  So — at  the  one  hundred  eigh- 
tieth meridian  it  gains  exactly  twenty-four 
hours/ 

"I  had  never  known  that  fact  before, 
though  I  was  very  likely  the  only  person 
alive  in  the  world  who  hadn't.  I  said  to 
him,  rather  excited  over  the  idea,  that  it 
must  be  an  extraordinary  sensation"  (Helen 
spoke  very  slowly  and  deliberately)  "to  lose 
all  that  time.  '  You  jump,'  I  asked  him,  'you 
actually  jump  from — ' 

"'From  Tuesday  noon  to  Wednesday 
noon.' 

"'Or  from  Sunday  evening  to  Monday 
evening,'  I  reckoned. 

" '  Yes,'  he  whispered,  intensely;  'you  never 
know — just  think  of  it! — what  becomes  of 
that  day.  It  is  lost — lost  forever.  And  no- 
body else  ever  knows — any  more  than  you 
do  yourself — what  you  may  have  done  in  the 
interval !' 

'"Of  course,'  I  puzzled,  'you  really  can't 
do  anything.' 

"'Ah!'  he  cried,  drawing  nearer  to  me; 
'but  you  might  do  so  much  in  a  day  which 

124 


ONE  HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

you  knew  was  going  to  be  lost — wiped  out — 
forever!  Mightn't  you?' 

"He  still  leaned  close  and  waited.  All  at 
once  I  got  an  unpleasant  sense  of  the  kind  of 
thing"  (Helen  stated  it  unflinchingly)  "that 
he  meant.  I  confess  I  had  to  restrain  myself. 
I  wanted  to  invoke  Tom  and  speak  out  my 
mind. 

"'Suppose,  for  instance,*  he  went  on  to 
me — dulcetly"  (she  emphasized  the  last  word 
with  a  grimace) — "'suppose  that  now — here 
we,  you  and  I,  were  going  to  lose,  that  we 
could  be  sure  of  losing  forever  afterward, 
every  minute  between  now  and  to-morrow!' 

"  'Then  it  would  be,'  I  tried  to  answer  him 
directly,  'Saturday.  That's  all.' 

"'But  think,'  he  said,  'think!— if  we 
knew  we  were  going  to  lose  it  all — of  what 
we  could  do  in  the  interval!' 

"'Yes,'  I  said,  carelessly  —  like  that  — 
'think.'  .  .  ." 

"Fou/'  burst  forth  George  Kirtland, 
"were  precisely  as  bad  as  he  was.  You 
were  leading  him  on  when  you  ought  to  have 
stopped  him  off  short.  It  was  all  your 
fault  if—" 

"Of  course  it  was,"  Helen  sarcastically 
reflected ;  "of  course  it  is  always  the  woman's 

125 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

place  to  fall  back — inexpressibly  shocked  and 
insulted  —  on  the  moral  right  which  is  her 
only  just  due.  You  would  have  had  me — 
after  stating  the  obvious  reasons  and  my  own 
horror  (which  he  would  have  construed  as 
merely  my  regret!) — you  would  have  had  me 
then  decently  withdraw  like  a  perfect  lady 
to  an  adjoining  room — leaving  him — in  spite 
of  all  I  could  say  to  the  contrary — to  glory 
in  his  unshaken  conviction  that  it  was,  such 
was  the  lamentable  way  of  the  world,  only 
a  moral  law  that  stood  between  us !  He — 
oh,  I  nearly  said  his  name! — he,  too,  like- 
wise expected  me  to  do  just  that.  But  I — 
I  was  dashed — there! — if  I  would." 

"You  wanted  not  to  do  the  usual  thing," 
said  Paul,  gleaming. 

"Even  you,  with  all  your  pretense  at 
understanding  that  women  should  have  some- 
where near  an  equal  freedom  in  the  world, 
haven't  got  any  further  than  that!  .  .  . 
What  I  didn't  want  was  to  give  him — that 
crass  hulk  of  a  man — a  chance  to  try  to 
teach  me  how  I  could  safely  dare  a  little 
for  the  sake  of — of  what  bliss  he  had  to  be- 
stow. Don't  you  see?  I  didn't  want  to 
seem  anything  but  perfectly  free  to  give  him 
a  good  looking  over  and  then  turn  him  down 

126 


ONE   HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

solely  because — because  he  didn't  one  whit 
tempt  me." 

"Bravo!"  Esther  shouted;  and,  diplo- 
matically leading  her  witness,  she  wanted  to 
know  how  that  result  was  accomplished. 

"'We  might,'  he  told  me,"  Helen  con- 
tinued, "'  imagine  that  we  were  having — 
then  and  there  —  together — our  lost  day. 
'Let's  have  it  that  way,  dear,  will  you?  .  .  . 
We're  all  alone  here  —  let's  pretend  it 
is  so!'  .  .  . 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  Helen  declared,  "how 
his  patronizing  proposition  offended  me.  His 
whole  tone  was  one  of  offering  me  a  —  a 
bountiful  boon  —  to  light  up  my  dreary, 
hemmed-in  existence!  His  apparent  eager- 
ness— his  whole  plea — it  seemed  to  me,  was 
based  on  pride  in  his  consciousness  of  what 
grand  things  he  could  do  for  me  if  I  would 
only  risk  it!" 

"You  admit,"  cross-examined  George, 
"that  it  was — well — distinctly  flattering?" 

"I  laughed  right  out  at  him,"  cried  Helen, 
contemptuously  dramatic;  "I  forced  myself 
to!  I  said  to  him  gaily — unabashed,  I 
hope — "  (she  recited  it  without  the  flicker  of 
an  eyelid)  "that  under  some  circumstances  it 
might  be  very  desirable  to  lose  a  day — that 

127 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

under  some  it  might  even  pay  to  pretend 
one  did:  but  that  I  had  no  slightest  inclina- 
tion to  lose  the  day  in  question." 

"You  didn't  flash  it  out  on  him  like 
that?"  I  couldn't  help  wondering. 

"Oh,  he  didn't  believe  I  meant  it!"  she 
quickly  assured  me.  "It  wasn't  so  easy  as 
that!  'Do,  at  least,'  he  protested, 'let's  be 
frank  with  each  other!'  Once  I  hadn't 
preached  to  him,  he  didn't  doubt  for  a  sec- 
ond that  I  would  have  gone  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth  with  him  if  I  had  dared  to! 
That's  what  he  meant  by  what  he  said  over 
and  over  —  and  things  to  try  to  make  me 
comprehend  how  he  would  never  'remem- 
ber it*  never  'lay  it  up  against  me!' ' 

"Oh!"  Esther  groaned. 

But  both  George  and  Paul  were  absolutely 
silent. 

"He  asked  me  to  sing  the  song  I  was 
singing  when  he  came  into  the  room.  I  told 
him  it  was  too  late — that  I  was  sleepy.  .  .  . 
'Sleepy?  Sleepy?  You're  not  in  the  least 
sleepy!  Nobody  was  ever  more  wide  awake,' 
he  rallied  me.  .  .  .  Can't  you  see  how  hopeless 
his  point  of  view  was?  He  wouldn't  even 
credit  that  I  knew  enough  about  myself — 
in  his  captivating  presence — to  determine 

128 


ONE  HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

whether  or  not  I  needed  sleep! . . .  But  I  was 
bound  to  think  out  how  I  could  show  him  a 
thing  or  two.  I  yawned,  meanwhile,  and 
went  over  to  the  piano,  and  began  singing. 
He  turned  the  pages  for  me — breathing  hard 
and  leaning  against  my  shoulder  so  that  it 
was  really  quite  difficult  to  play. 

"  At  last  I  told  him  in  disgust  that  he  had  to 
get  out.  I  wanted  to  go  to  bed  and  couldn't 
be  bothered  with  him  any  longer — whatever 
the  cost  to  my  disciplinal  resolutions." 

For  once  George  looked  at  Helen  approv- 
ingly. 

"I  might  have  known,"  she  affirmed — as 
from  her  deep  fund  of  healthy  cynicism, 
"that  he  wouldn't  pay  any  attention  to 
what  I  said.  He  did  not  believe  I  wanted 
him  to  go.  That  man  could  not  conceive  of 
my  possibly  wanting  him  to  go  home  so  that 
I  might  have  a  little  sleep!  Isn't  it  colos- 
sally  improbably  staggering  how  such  a  dis- 
proportionate amount  of  egotism  can  exist!" 

"You  very  likely  warranted  him  in  think- 
ing you  were  tempting  him  to  stay,"  exploded 
George  again.  (And  though  we  were  ashamed 
of  him,  I  know  that  I,  at  least,  was  secretly 
glad  somebody  wanted  to  venture  such  a 
foolish  hazard  if  only  to  clear  the  ground.) 

129 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"I  don't  say  tempting  intentionally/'  he 
recklessly  modified,  "but  you  may  have  in- 
sisted on  his  going  in  a  way  that  made  him 
think  you  wanted  him  to  stay  in  spite  of 
your  actual  words.  I've  had  girls  do  that  to 


me." 


"See?"  Helen  asked,  lifting  her  hands  and 
letting  them  fall  resignedly,  and  giving  each 
of  us  others  an  incisive  glance.  "It's  as 
clear  as  day !  What  can  we  do !  Some  men 
are  so  used  to  assuming  that  they  can  con- 
quer wherever  and  whenever  they  wish  to 
spare  the  time  and  energy !  We' '  — she  looked 
sharply  at  Esther — "we're  supposed  to  offer 
only  what  resistance  our  religion,  inexperi- 
ence, and  'natural  timidity'  have  endowed 
us  with!  We're  not  supposed  to  be  capable 
of  expressing  even  a  sound  preference!" 

"You're  expected,"  declaimed  George — 
and  Paul  swayed  delightedly — "in  a  situ- 
ation like  the  one  in  which  you  placed 
yourself — " 

"Placed  herself!"  Esther  sneered. 

"Like  that  in  which  you  were,  then," 
yielded  George.  "You're  expected  to  tell  a 
man  what  you  think  of  his  actions — if  in- 
deed," he  added,  with  an  attempt  at  irony — 
"you  think  anything — derogatory." 

130 


ONE  HUNDRED   EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

"I  knew  I  was  expected  to,"  Helen  coun- 
tered. "I  was  expected — to  put  it  in  terms 
of  one  syllable — to  call  him  base  and  low  and 
everything  that  he  was  and  then  to  let  him 
go  on  pitying  me,  and  laughing  at  the  sub- 
jected state  of  womankind !  Thank  you.  I 
wouldn't  have  given  him  that  opportunity 
to  lord  it  over  me,  not  even  if  I  had  to  use 
what  men  all  love  to  think  is  brute  force." 

"I  think,"  Paul  put  in  somewhat  hyster- 
ically, "that  you  might  at  least  have  made 
it  a  little  clearer  how  much  you  hated 
him." 

"The  *  coyness  of  women*  argument 
again!"  Esther  exclaimed  in  despair. 

"But  have  it  your  own  way,"  Helen 
calmly  concluded — "take  it  for  granted, 
then,  that  I  did  lead  him  on;  whether  or  not 
I  can  persuade  you  that  I  didn't  is  just  as 
beside  the  point  really  as  whether  or  not  I 
cared  to  spend  the  rest  of  that  unlost  night 
trying  in  vain  to  convince  him.  Whatever  I 
did,  I  decided  all  at  once  how  I  could  trip 
him  up." 

"Trip  him  up?"  George  indignantly 
repeated. 

"Let  Helen  explain  how  she  did  it,"  inter- 
polated Esther. 

131 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"Yes,  yes,  how  did  you?"  I  demanded,  in 
my  impatience. 

"Poor,  poor  downtrodden  imposed-upon 
male!"  Paul  ranted. 

"My  plan  came  to  me,"  Helen  related, 
painstakingly,  and  she  got  up  and  put  an- 
other log  on  the  fire,  and  poked  it,  and  then 
turned  round  to  face  us  again;  "it  came  to 
me  while  we  were  out  walking.  You  see  I'd 
got  him  once  as  far  as  the  door — which 
I  hoped  I  should  manage  next  moment  to 
slam  in  his  face — when  he  actually  grabbed 
me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  outside,  saying 
that  a  short  walk  with  him  would  be  benefi- 
cial. It  was  my  anger  and  my  need  for  re- 
venge, I  expect,  that  inspired  me.  Things 
had  gone  too  far — so  far  that  no  mere  get- 
ting rid  of  him  would  do.  I  felt  that  I 
must  somehow  or  other  throw  him  down  for 
a  reason  which  he  would  unequivocally  be- 
lieve in;  for  a  reason  which  he  couldn't  attrib- 
ute to  my  enamoured  but  cowardly  state  of 
mind!  For  he  kept  right  on  beseeching  me 
with  that  inexhaustible  inherited  traditional 
man's  confidence  in  his  own  indispensability 
which  mistakes  insult  for  buried  depths  of 
passion.  I  simply  had  to  propound  some- 
thing which  would  destroy  that  obsession." 

132 


ONE  HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

"I'll  bet,"  snickered  Paul,  "I  know  what 
you  said!" 

"Why  didn't  you  remind  him,"  George 
lucidly  argued,  "in  case  you  hadn't  for- 
gotten it — that  you  were  engaged  to  be 
married?" 

"That's  precisely,"  said  Helen,  "the  sort 
of  answer  which  my  grandmother  in  about 
1845  made  to  your  grandfather;  and  we  all 
know  how  far  that  sort  of  reply  has  carried 
you!  .  .  ." 

I  guessed  and  guessed,  and  found  myself 
floundering  in  precarious  depths  of  vagueness 
as  to  a  perfect  means  to  her  high  aim. 
Esther  just  sat  and  waited  triumphantly 
until  our  child's  -  resources  had  been  ex- 
hausted. "Tell  them,  Helen,"  she  then 
languidly  commanded,  "what  you  did.  The 
rest  of  you  stay  still  for  two  minutes  and 
give  her  a  chance." 

But  Helen  herself  hesitated  over  telling  us. 
I  think  she  was  suddenly  afraid  of  the  diffi- 
culty she  would  have  justifying  herself  in  our 
eyes  for  whatever  it  was  she  had  done.  "I 
told  him,"  she  gradually  brought  out,  "that  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  explain  to  him  ex- 
actly why  his  proposition  didn't  appeal  to  me. 
.  .  .  We  were  back,  inside  the  house,  by  that 

133 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

time.  He  was  standing  in  front  of  me,  a  hand 
on  each  of  my  shoulders — as  if  prepared  to 
hear  any  one  of  the  objections  which  he  had, 
in  his  vast  and  varied  exploits  with  women, 
found  plenty  of  ways  to  surmount.  .  .  . 
'I'm  ready,'  he  said,  gallantly;  'tell  me.* 

" '  This,'  I  said, '  is  the  reason  why.  You've 
forced  the  facts  from  me — here  they  are!' 
It  was  hard  to  look  him  straight  in  the  eye 
while  I  spoke,  but  I  was  bound  to  put  it 
through.  'Before  you  arrived  here  this 
evening,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  I 
was  not  alone.  I  came  away  from  that 
dinner-party  very  early,  because — ' 

"'Oh!'  he  exclaimed,  stepping  back. 

'"Because  I  wanted  to  meet  somebody 
here.  I  was  going  to  meet — a  man.' 

'"You  weren't!'  he  cried  to  me,  pathet- 
ically. 

'"I  was.  And  what  is  more — I  did  meet 
him.  We  were  alone  together  here.  He  left 
only  five  minutes  before  you — ' 

'"I  don't  believe  it!'  he  uttered. 

" '  We,'  I  flung  at  him — '  we  found  ourselves 
at  the  one  hundred  eightieth  meridian.  Our 
lost  day  was  so  completely  to  my  satisfac- 
tion that  I  have  no  interest  whatever  in 
losing  another  with — of  all  people! — you.9 

134 


ONE  HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH  MERIDIAN 

"'You  don't  mean  to  tell  me?'  he  gasped. 

"'I  do.' 

'"It's  impossible — impossible,'  he  theo- 
rized. 'You — you?' 

"'Me.' 

" '  Nobody  could  have  been  here.  Nobody 
would  have  dared!' 

"  I  bowed  my  head. 

"'It  isn't  true,'  he  shouted;  'you  don't 
know  what  you're  saying!  You!  You're  the 
last  person  in  the  world.  .  .  .  And  you — 
engaged  to  be  married —  How  can  you 
stand  there — like  that — and  admit  to  me 
having  done  such  a  thing?' 

"I  courtesied  to  him. 

" '  It's  too — horrible !'  he  groaned. 

"And  he  turned  away  from  me — his  lips 
quivering,  his  eyes  wild,  the  lines  on  his  face 
hardened — he  turned  away  in  disgust.  I 
could  see  him  gaze  furtively  around  the  room 
for  his  Panama  hat;  I  watched  him  cross 
over  to  the  chair  where  his  hat  lay  and  get 
it.  I  knew  then — I  knew  by  the  strange 
odious  feeling  it  gave  me — that  at  last  he 
had  believed  the  yarn  which  I  had  invented 
to  his  undoing!" 

There  was  an  audible  catch  in  Helen's 
voice  as  she  finished.  Her  cheeks  were 

10  135 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

aflame.  She  looked — the  resemblance  then 
and  there  struck  me — like  Electra. 

"Wasn't  the  completeness  of  his  fall  too 
glorious!"  Esther  commented. 

"By  Jove!"  I  marveled,  as  the  light  began 
to  come.  "  He  couldn't  stand — eh? — for  the 
very  same  thing  which  he  had  been  ad- 
vocating!" 

"No,"  Helen  dryly  responded.  "And  he 
had  been  advocating  it  so — as  he  thought — 
magnificently,  for  my  sake,  that  I  couldn't 
bear  not  to  prove  to  him  how  unnecessary  his 
— his  magnificence  was !  Do  you  blame  me?" 

We  none  of  us  blamed  her;  even  George 
was  grimly  puzzling  over  her  dexterity  in  ex- 
tricating herself  so  sacrificially;  and  Paul 
wasn't  flippant. 

But,  "Was  that  all  he  said?"  Esther 
Puckily  inquired. 

"No.  At  least,  he  didn't  say  anything 
else  just  then;  he  moved  out  into  the  hall. 
But  out  there  he  remembered  something. 
His  pride  was  injured.  He  apparently  had 
seen  a  possible  injury  to  his  reputation,  too, 
from  something  he  had  failed  to  say.  .  .  . 
So  he  came  back  again.  He  stood  a  good 
way  off  and  looked  at  me  as  if  I  were  beneath 
his  contempt — beyond  the  pale  of  all  decency 

136 


ONE   HUNDRED  EIGHTIETH   MERIDIAN 

— hardly  fit  for  him  to  be  left  alone  with  even 
a  second  longer. 

"And  this  is  really  delicious!"  Helen  an- 
nounced. "'Of  course/  he  said  to  me,  coldly 
— in  a  business-like  manner,  '  I  have  heard  of 
— of  women  doing  things  like  this  before. 
But  I  have  never  before  thought  that  you 
were  one  of  them ! ' ' 

"Just  why  did  he  say  that?"  George 
pondered,  densely. 

"Because,"  gloated  Helen,  "he  elegantly 
just  couldn't  bear  to  have  me  underestimate 
his  knowledge  of  the  great  world.  He  was 
ashamed  of  the  surprise  he  had  shown — of 
his  unconcealed  amazement  at  what  I  had 
dealt  out  to  him.  He  wanted  me  to  see  that 
he — oh,  he  wanted  me  to  be  perfectly  sure — 
that  he,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  had  actually 
run  across  other  cases  of  women — even  en- 
gaged ones,  perhaps — going  wrong!" 

George  Kirtland  shrank  under  her  gaze. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  him  since?"  Paul 
asked. 

"Of  course — I  meet  him  frequently,"  con- 
cluded Helen.  "He  always  cuts  me  dead." 

"And  you,"  was  Esther  Glynn's  emphatic 
comparison,  "you  haven't  even  told  us  who 
he  is!" 

137 


IV 

MR.  EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 


IT  loomed  there,  high  and  large,  uncom- 
promised  by  the  gloom  of  mist  around  it, 
unruffled  by  the  easterly  gusts  that  bent  the 
two  rows  of  larches  which  stretched  in  de- 
liberate diagonal  lines  from  the  street  to  the 
corners  of  its  grim  facade.  Hastings  could 
hear  the  beating  of  the  sea;  it  was  probably 
in  that  chaos  of  space  behind  the  house. 
And,  as  he  stood  leaning  against  one  of  the 
tall  gate-posts  and  surveying  the  scene,  he 
began  to  feel,  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  in 
sympathy  with  it. 

A  motor  drew  up  near  by  where  he  stood. 
Instinctively  his  attention  was  directed  from 
it  to  the  green  Georgian  portal,  which  at  the 
moment  was  drawn  in  to  permit  somebody 
to  pass  out.  She  was  in  glaring  contrast  to 
her  setting;  she  was  fresh  and  lovely — 
young  and  fashionable-looking.  She  paused 

138 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

on  the  wide  stone  step,  glanced  up  at  the  sky, 
opened  her  plaid  umbrella,  and  briskly  pro- 
ceeded down  the  avenue  to  the  gate.  Within 
a  few  yards  of  it  she  raised  her  eyes  from 
the  puddled  gravel,  and  started  back  at  sight 
of  him. 

"Jack!"  she  cried  out,  "how  did  you  get 
here?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I'm  this 
minute  on  my  way — !"  All  of  which  she 
added  as  she  sprang  toward  him.  .  .  . 

"  I  was  admiring  your  summer  home,  Julia 
— Julia  dear,"  he  said  to  her,  finally,  a  little 
constrained.  "It's  sad  and  desolate,  and 
everything  I  suppose  you  want  it  to  be.  I 
expected  not  to — mind  so.  I  thought  that, 
having  spent  most  of  my  life  away  from  all 
this,  I  should  have  lost  every  scrap  of — of 
obeisance  to  New  England.  But  ever  since 
I  set  foot  in  Rockface — " 

"When  did  you,  Jack?" 

"An  hour  ago.  I've  been  in  the  strangest 
mood  ever  since." 

"  Come  now  and  tell  me  about  it,"  she  sud- 
denly saw  the  need  to  say,  walking  away 
from  him  to  dismiss  the  grinning  chauffeur. 

Hastings  lingered  alone  in  the  hall.  "  It's 
much  nicer  by  the  fire!"  Julia  called  to  him 
impatiently  from  the  next  room.  And  he 

139 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

followed  the  sound  of  her  voice.  He  moved 
slowly  over  to  a  chair,  opposite  her  own,  and 
sat  down — forgetting  to  talk.  "I  vow  I'm 
amused,"  she  exclaimed,  "at  the  way  you 
take  it!  You've  made  lettersful  of  fun  of 
me  for  settling  my  parents  'on  that  ugly 
little  Massachusetts  point' ;  you've  laid  it  all 
down  to  my  *  Middle- Western  love  of  Puritan 
relics'  and  'Eastern  culturine'  and  scorned 
my  'romantic  inexperience';  and  here  you 
come — redolent  of  Europe — to  be  as  much 
impressed  by  our  choice  as  if  you  were  a 
Montana  school-girl!" 

He  smiled  back,  but  it  was  obvious  he 
hadn't  heard  a  word.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you,  Jacky?"  she  asked,  concernedly; 
"had  a  bad  journey?" 

He  tried  to  concentrate  his  faculties  on 
looking  genial  and  at  the  same  time  intelli- 
gent. "  It  was  just  like  me,  Julia,"  he  began, 
the  ghost  of  cheerfulness  on  his  face;  "  I  took 
the  earliest  sort  of  train,  instead  of  the  one  I 
telephoned  you  I'd  take.  . .  .  You  see,  to  have 
landed  at  night — after  all  the  years — think  of 
it! — and  then  to  go  walking  around  by  my- 
self, seeing  things  crop  suddenly  up  that  I 
hadn't  thought  of  since — well — scarcely  since 
I  was  born.  No  wonder  I  couldn't  sleep. 

140 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

This  morning — like  a  stranded  idiot — I  got 
out  at  that  little  way  station  of  yours  and 
realized  for  the  first  time  that  I  didn't  have 
a  blessed  idea  where  you  lived." 

"Rockface  is  about  as  enormous  as  a  bis- 
cuit. Anybody  could  have  told  you." 

"That's  the  strangest  part  of  it,"  recol- 
lected Hastings. . . .  "  You  see,  I  had  a  curious 
'hunch'  about  it.  I  felt  a  little — a  little 
forsaken.  I  was  actually  surprised  and  irri- 
tated that  somebody — I  didn't  know  who ! — 
wasn't  waiting  to  meet  me. 

"There  was  something  about  the  place, 
Julia,"  he  gravely  pursued,  "made  me  feel 
justified  in  thinking  a  hospitable  welcome 
was  due  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  mean  only  be- 
cause you  were  here.  But — well — the  veil 
of  sea-turn  that  half  hid  the  buildings  across 
the  square  made  me  feel  the  need  of  some 
kind  of  greeting — I  demanded  one ! — right  on 
the  spot.  Can  you  understand?  .  .  .  And, 
instead,  the  cold  east  wind  blew  round  me  as 
if  I  were  an  outcast." 

Julia  just  gazed  at  him. 

"  I  had  an  odd  idea  in  my  head  of  having 
seen  it  all  before,  and  it  made  me  lonelier. . . . 
I  stole  down  the  first  crooked  street  I  came 
to.  I  stared  at  the  house-fronts,  at  the  little 

141 


UNDER   THE  ROSE 

square  panes  of  the  sagging  window-sashes, 
at  the  dingy  doors  with  those  short  steep 
flights  of  steps  leading  down  to  the  sidewalks, 
at  the  uneven  bricks  of  the  sidewalks 
themselves." 

Julia  sobered  to  a  tentative  frown.  Jack's 
eyes  were  bigger  than  usual;  and  he  did 
look,  notwithstanding  the  feverish  flush  on 
his  cheeks,  rather  fagged.  How  she  had 
been  counting  the  days  for  him  to  come!  It 
didn't  seem  possible  that  the  visit  which  he 
had  been  promising  for  so  long  to  make  her 
should  have  now  materialized.  .  .  .  Wasn't  it 
really  an  indication,  she  pondered  while  again 
happily  she  sized  up  the  situation,  if  he  took 
so  much  trouble  for  her,  that  he  did,  after  all, 
care  more  perhaps  than  she  had  sometimes 
thought?  But  what  an  extraordinary  meet- 
ing it  had  been!  He  had  at  once  launched 
forth  on  this  extreme  discourse.  .  .  .  She  sat 
back  and  let  her  eyes  rest  on  him  with 
amused  tolerance,  her  smile  attentively  ad- 
justed to  suit  his  mood;  for  her  moment's 
anxiety  vanished  at  further  sight  of  his 
strong,  broad  shoulders  and  the  handsome 
appearance  he  made  in  her  favorite  high-back 
chair — his  firm  hands  grasping  the  arms  of  it. 
"You've  stayed  away  from  America  too 

142 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

long,"  she  said,  carelessly.  "Paris  is  bad 
for  you." 

He  leaned  forward,  his  delicately  modeled 
cheek-bones  emphasized  by  the  firelight,  his 
hair  becomingly  awry.  "I  knew  it  would 
all  be  as  it  was,"  he  went  inspiredly  on. 
"There  was  a  thick  clump  of  hedge,  cold  and 
dreary  in  the  mist,  that  awoke  pictures  of  a 
prison  I  used  to  dread  the  sight  of  when  I 
was — I  don't  know  how  old.  Once  I  partly 
thought  I  must  be  dreaming;  so  I  put  out 
my  hand  and  touched  the  wet,  sodden 
picket  of  an  old  fence.  I  looked  suspiciously 
behind  me.  But  there  was  only  an  old  man 
behind,  fully  two  hundred  yards  away. 
Then  the  idea  came  to  me  that  it  would  be  a 
relief  to  talk  to  somebody;  I  hadn't  inter- 
changed a  word  with  any  one  since  I  got  off 
the  ship.  All  kinds  of  impressions,  you  see, 
had  been  accumulating.  And  they  thronged 
like  phantoms  about  me. 

"I  wanted  to  hear  myself  speak — to  see 
if  I  could.  And  I  turned  and  waited  for 
him  to  come.  The  rain  was  dripping  all 
around;  there  wasn't  another  sound  any- 
where. .  .  .  Now  this  is  the  queerest  thing  of 
all;  what  do  you  think  I  said  to  him?" 
Jack  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  darting  in- 

143 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

tensely  over  her  face.  "I  said,  'Can  you 
tell  me  the  way  to  Mr.  Eberdeen's  house?" ' 

"Mr. —  Eberdeen's  house!"  She  stood 
abruptly  up.  "Who — who  told  you,"  she 
gasped,  "that  this  was  Mr.  Eberdeen's 
house?" 

He  stood  up,  too,  stepping  back  from  her. 
"You  must  have  told  me,"  he  said,  con- 
scious of  his  quivering  lips,  "in  one  of  your 
letters.  The  name  came  to  me — " 

"I  never  told  you,"  she  stated,  emphat- 
ically; "I  never  told  any  one — for — for — 
why  did  you  ask  such  a  question  of  that  old 
man?" 

His  gaze  wandered.  "My  throat  felt 
parched  from  disuse.  It  took  a  distinct 
effort  to  make  the  words  sound  articulate. 
And:  'Sure  now/  answered  the  old  man, 
while  I  was  still  puzzling  to  explain  to  myself 
the  question  I  had  asked  him;  'but  never 
have  I  heard  it  called  that — not  since  my 
father  died  from  the  cold  he  caught  drivin' 
the  mare  up  from  Portsville.  There  'us  a 
time — in  the  days  when  they  talked  of  it 
bein'  ha'nted — you'd  hear  folks  call  it  Eber- 
deen  Manor,  but  not — no,  and  my  father 
likely's  been  dead  these  forty  years  past — 
never  Mr.  Eberdeen's  house!' 

144 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

"'Mr.  Eberdeen — there  was  such  a  person, 
then?' 

"'There'll  be  a  time,  me  boy,  when 
they'll  doubt  yerself  was  a  living  thing!' 
He  straightened  his  bent  body  reprehensibly 
and  shook  his  head.  'Walk  back  to  the 
next  corner,'  he  muttered,  'and  turn  to  yer 
left.  It  '11  be  down  there  by  the  cliffs— if 
nobody's  stolen  it.  Somebody  '11  sure  'nough 
be  there  ter  point  it  out  to  yer.' 

"'I'm  a  stranger,'  I  apologized.  *I  really 
didn't  know.' 

"'Know!'  he  shouted.  .  .  .  'Who  was  it 
owned  the  land  this  'ere  street  runs  over?  .  .  . 
Who  built  it?  Who  was  it  paid  fer  the 
church  on  the  hill?  Who  did  fer  the  sick, 
and  gave  to  the  poor,  and  got  nothin'  hisself 
fer  the  trouble  but  grief  and  loneliness  and 
a  broken  heart?  .  .  .  Wher'  did  yer  come 
from?  .  .  .' 

"And  he  surveyed  me,  as  if  the  mere  fact 
of  his  seeing  me  for  the  first  time  made  him 
doubt  my  intentions.  Still  I  stood  there, 
waiting.  '  What  was  he  like?  What  did  he 
do?  Who  was  he?'  I  couldn't  help  flinging 
out  in  my  wonderment. 

"'As  good's  '11  ever  come  back  from  wher' 
yer've  been,  or  '11  pray  fer  th'  like  of  yer,  I 

145 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

reckon.  .  .  .  Judge  not,  I  tell  yer,  that  yer 
be  not  yerself  judged.' 

"I  tried  to  smile  at  the  old  man. 

"'Good  day  to  yer,'  he  grumbled;  and 
walked  back  in  the  same  direction  he  had 
come.  I  watched  and  waited  until  he  was 
lost  in  the  thickness." 

Julia  looked  at  Hastings  in  astonishment. 
Just  another  glimmer  of  anxiety  for  him 
crossed  her  mind;  but  any  foolish  worry  she 
might  have  had  for  him  was  merged  in  her 
consciousness  of  something  indeed  more 
staggering.  "Do  you  think,"  she  marveled, 
"that  it  can  be  true — that — that  the  house 
is — was — ?" 

"I  had,"  Jack  unresponsively  continued. 
"I  couldn't  help  it,  on  the  way,  a  queer 
loathing  of  the  little  village.  The  gaunt 
house-fronts  obtruded  themselves  obsti- 
nately, self-satisfiedly,  like  anemic  country 
parsons  with  their  eyes  close  together — 
giving  me  a  mean,  soulless  stare.  Every 
object  testified  to  its  lack  of  any  tempera- 
mental share  in  the  joy  of  living.  The 
emptiness  of  the  streets  seemed  pitiless; 
their  narrowness  was  oppressive." 

"I  love  every  inch  of  it,"  she  declared. 

Hastings  was  silent.     He  looked  at  the 

146 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

dry,  colorless  walls  covered  with  circuitous 
lines  of  crackling  old  paint.  "Was  this 
furniture  all  here?"  he  asked,  weakly. 

"Not  this,  Jack!"  she  exclaimed,  with 
pride. 

"No  wonder,"  he  argued,  half  to  himself, 
"that  the  next  generation  preferred  black 
walnut — even  with  all  its  grapes  and  gew- 
gaws! Horrible  as  it  was,  it  wasn't  so 
orthodox  and  priggish  and  mirthless  as  what 
came  before.  ..." 

He  strayed  out  into  the  hall  again;  he 
viewed  its  stateliness,  its  expurgated  ele- 
gance. "Well,  this  has  got  me,  Julia — seri- 
ously," he  said,  with  a  surprised  realization 
that  she  was  standing  beside  him.  "It's — 
it's  immense." 

"That,  Jack,  from  you!  .  .  ."  And  slowly 
she  stepped  closer  to  say  something  to  him; 
but  she  thought  better  of  it.  Instead  she 
just  let  slip,  "Don't  you  think  I've  made  it 
look  at  least — well — old?" 

"As  only  a  Westerner  could  want  to 
make  it  look!"  he  assured  her,  his  sense  of 
humor  affectionately  covering  any  lack  of 
enthusiasm. 

"Come,  Jacky,"  she  urged  at  last,  "I'll 
show  you  all  of  it  before  lunch  is  ready." 

147 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

The  stairs  rose  straight  in  the  rear  of  the 
hall,  directly  opposite  the  main  entrance 
with  its  border  of  finely  traceried  diamond- 
shaped  windows,  branching  squarely  to  right 
and  left  two-thirds  of  the  way  up.  By  the 
first  door  above  the  side  whither  Julia 
conducted  her  guest  she  stepped  proudly 
back  and  announced: 

"This,  Jack,  is  your  room.  I  hope  you 
will  like  it." 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  distractedly  gazing 
about  him. 

Despite  the  freshness  of  everything — de- 
spite the  new  woolen  carpets  with  their  cor- 
rect geometric  designs  (ones  Julia  had  had 
copied  from  some  battered  relics  which  she 
had  somehow  acquired),  despite  the  new 
chintzes  and  the  recently  refinished  furniture 
so  deliberately  assembled  there  for  the  first 
time,  despite  the  spickness  and  spanness  of 
each  suitably  collected  detail  of  the  room's 
decorations,  a  musty  smell  in  the  air  caught 
his  breath.  The  floor  swooped  reminiscently 
down  toward  the  right;  the  boards  of  it 
made  a  stifled  creak  as  he  stepped  across 
them.  He  himself  was  a  little  unsteady.  .  .  . 
The  window  gave  on  impenetrable  fog. 
Hastings  threw  up  the  sash  and  peered  out 

148 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

into  the  dampness;  he  heard  the  sound  of 
unseen  boats  groping  their  ways  through  the 
distance;  the  water  lapped  and  laved  below 
him. 

"Jack!" 

He  turned  to  her,  dazed — smiling  in  that 
way  he  had  of  trying  to  conceal  his  conscious- 
ness of  inattention. 

"Of  course,  it  seems  plain,  and  spare,  and 
— and  rather  humble,  after  Europe.  /  know 
that." 

As  if  directed  by  her  words,  his  eyes  swept 
rapidly  over  the  room.  "  It's  no  use,  Julia," 
he  answered ;  "if  you're  New  England  to  the 
core  you  can't  get  free  of  it.  I'd  like  every 
drop  of  New  England  blood  drained  out  of 
me,  and  something — say  Hebrew — or — or 
Middle  West,"  he  laughed,  "substituted  in 
place  of  it.  To  you  this  is  'pretty'  and 
'cozy'  and — and  'cheerful';  to  me — well, 
it's  like  an  orgy  of  blue-laws;  it's  the  per- 
sonification of  witch-lore — like  self-inflicted 
penance  for  I  don't  know  what.  It's  as 
authentic  as  the  tomb!"  He  glanced  at  her 
in  excitement,  shifting  his  hands  uneasily  in 
and  out  of  his  pockets. 

"Is  it?"  she  asked,  slowly "You — you 

like  it,  then?" 

149 


UNDER   THE  ROSE 

"Like  it?"  he  echoed.  "That's  the 
trouble!  I'm  so  full  of  the  meaning  of  it  all. 
Can  you  fancy  how  a  monk  might  feel,  who'd 
been  away  on  a  vacation,  just  getting  back 
to  his  cell?  .  .  .  Like  it?  I  can't  help 
liking  it !  It's  my  proper  setting ;  I  see  that 
fast  enough.  But  I've  come  back  to  find  how 
inexorable  and  harsh  and  catechismal  it  is, 
and  naturally,  I  resent  being  what  I  am. 
Oh — "  He  broke  off,  suddenly  realizing  the 
folly  of  his  harangue  and,  after  another  mo- 
ment, added:  "It's  delightful,  Julia  dear — 
really.  ...  If  only  all  the  Westerners  would 
come  to  New  England  and  revive  it — and  all 
the  New-Englanders  could  move  West  and 
revive  themselves!  ..." 

They  went  on  from  room  to  room.  "You 
Westerners,"  Hastings  reiterated,  "oh,  I  don't 
just  know  what  the  difference  is,  for  you're 
New  England,  too.  Only  you've  got  so  much 
else  mixed  up  with  it.  You've  become  free- 
lances; your  more  recent — less  bigoted — 
adventures  have  made  you  forget." 

"What?"  asked  Julia,  indignantly. 

But  he  was  at  a  loss,  as  he  looked  about 
him,  to  explain,  however  much  each  new  sur- 
vey of  the  scene  convinced  him.  "Here," 
he  muttered,  "everything  has  been  steeping 

150 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

so  long  in  the  attenuated  resolutions  that 
originally  drove  us  to  come;  everything  is 
still  conscientiously  soaked — saturated — in 
the  barren  memory  of  it." 

"You're  not,"  said  Julia,  testily.  "Pre- 
cious little  of  it  you  Ve  had !  Two  years  at  a 
school!  You're  more  French  than  you  are 
New  England.  Remember — your  .  .  ." 

"Yes.  I  don't  forget  I've  one  foreign 
ancestor  to  boast  of,  and  bless  Heaven  for  it. 
How  my  great- grandmother  ever  happened 
to  marry —  See  this!"  Hastings  went  on, 
incoherently  catching  her  arm  and  waving 
his  other  over  the  exquisite  appointments  of 
her  "Colonial"  chamber.  .  .  .  "Now  this,  to 
you,  is — well — it's  as  'amusing'  as  if  you'd 
tried  to  furnish  a  room  to  imitate  one  in 
Cinderella's  palace,  as  'interesting'  as  if 
you'd  done  it  Louis  Sixteenth,  or — or — its 
meaning  is  hardly  more  important  to  you 
than  the  room  you  furnished  in  Munich — 
that  winter?"  (She  blushed  admiringly  at 
memory  of  their  first  meeting.)  "  The  prob- 
lem appealed  to  you  and  you  made  it  attrac- 
tive  But  to  me — " 

"You  really  hate  it?"  said  Julia,  deter- 
mined to  face  the  facts. 

I  really  love  it,"  he  retorted,  sadly,  "the 

11  151 


UNDER   THE  ROSE 

way  you  couldn  t  help  loving  a  parent,  even 
though  you  mightn't  believe  in  him." 

"Jack!"  she  characteristically  cried  out  to 
him  again;  "there's  one  thing  I'm  really 
ashamed  to  show  you,  then.  You'll  think  me 
such  a  fool.  I — " 

At  this  point  a  servant  appeared  to  an- 
nounce that  luncheon  was  ready. 

"Don't  say  anything  to  them  against  it," 
she  told  him  on  the  way  down. 

That  wasn't,  however,  what  made  him  so 
silent  during  the  meal.  He  took  little  part 
in  the  conversation  except  when  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Elliot  plied  him  with  questions,  which 
he  then  found  himself  answering  with  only 
unsatisfactory  vagueness,  answers  that  he 
could  do  nothing — not  even  when  Julia 
flew  tenderly  to  his  rescue — to  make  any 
better.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  liked  the  house,  he  said, 
gravely.  It  was  a  nice  old  house.  .  .  .  And 
he  thought  how  murky,  in  spite  of  its  new 
coats  of  cleaning,  was  that  far  corner  up 
near  the  ceiling.  .  .  .  No,  he  wasn't  sorry,  he 
responded,  that  he  had  left  the  Ecole  des 
Beaux  Arts  to  devote  all  his  time  to  painting 
— it  was  the  one  thing  he  was  suited  for. 
Yes,  his  foreign  great-grandfather  had  been 
a  portrait-painter.  He  couldn't  remember 

152 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

what  his  exact  name  was.  Tremaine?  Henry 
Tremaine.  That  was  it.  ...  Julia  was  look- 
ing hard  at  him.  She  was  gazing  down  at  her 
plate.  .  .  .  He  knew  he  had  eaten  nothing. 
He  could  not  eat.  .  .  .  No,  he  wasn't  at  all 
hungry. .  .  .  Why  was  it  so  chilly?  he  thought. 
Doubtless  he  had  picked  up  a  germ.  .  .  .  The 
house,  he  muttered  to  himself,  was  on  his 
nerves.  It  was  so  everlastingly  gloomy! 
Julia  had  reinhabited  it  too — too  authenti- 
cally. .  .  .  "Eberdeen  Manor" — "Mr.  Eber- 
deen's  House"!  What  names!  .  .  . 

Some  hour  afterward  he  told  Julia  he  was 
dead  sleepy  and  that,  contrary  to  all  his 
habits,  he  was  going  up-stairs  to  take  a  nap. 
Dinner  was  at  seven?  All  right,  he  would 
be  in  better  shape  by  then.  .  .  .  He  felt  alto- 
gether wretched,  but  he  didn't  say  so. 

Out  in  the  hall  he  paused  a  moment  at  the 
foot  of  the  wide  lower  staircase.  The  ticking 
of  a  good  many  clocks  came  to  him  from 
different  parts  of  the  house ;  they  seemed  to 
focus  their  monotonous  activity  especially 
on  his  hearing.  Extraordinary  recollections 
swept  him.  .  .  .  He  remembered  having  heard 
his  old  nurse,  Sarah  Teale,  describe  how  her 
aunt  once  rushed  out  the  back  door  right  in 
the  midst  of  frying  doughnuts,  and  was  in- 

153 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

stantly  stricken  with  paralysis  on  account 
of  it. ...  There  was  a  low  groaning — a  moan 
floated  to  him  from  somewhere  above. 
Bravely  he  forced  himself  to  climb  the  stairs 
toward  it. ...  He  turned  the  knob.  The  door 
stuck.  He  shook  it  again,  and  it  yielded. 


II 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  he  awoke.  A 
late,  a  very  late,  an  unnaturally  late  after- 
noon dusk  shadowed  in  streaks  across  the 
floor.  He  could  hardly  breathe.  The  win- 
dows were  close  shut.  The  striped  shades 
were  drawn  'way  down  to  the  sills.  .  .  .  But  he 
could  see  the  yellowed  print  of  Da  Vinci's 
"Last  Supper" — the  one  he  had  bought  at 
Milan — hanging  on  the  panel  above  the 
empty  hearth.  There  was  the  maple  sand- 
shaker  on  his  desk.  .  .  .  That  old  lithograph 
of  the  two  kittens  over  beside  the  bureau  was 
crooked.  He  must  remember  to  straighten 
it.  ...  The  wall-paper  was  getting  dingy.  . .  . 

He  stretched  himself.  A  sharp  pain  was 
going  through  his  head.  But  it  was  so  late. 
He  must  get  up  and  dress  or  he  wouldn't  be 
ready  in  time. 

The   clothes  he  had  just  taken  off  lay 

154 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

across  an  arm  of  the  painted  chair  by  his  bed. 
He  lifted  the  coat,  and  let  it  fall  from  his 
grasp.  He  moved  over  to  the  washstand. 
The  Chinese  pitcher  was  as  light  as  if  filled 
with  air  when  he  turned  its  nose  to  the 
basin.  The  hat-tub  stood  on  end — between 
the  washstand  and  the  closet  door.  He 
reached  for  the  battered  old  red  tassel  of  the 
bell-rope  and  pulled  it.  ...  It  was  so  late — 
it  was  getting  later — he  must  hurry,  whether 
Simpkins  came  or  not.  He  could  manage. 
And  he  opened  the  closet  door,  sighing  at  the 
bothersome  prospect  of  getting  into  his 
togs.  .  .  .  He  ran  his  hand  over  his  hair. 
Where  was  the  mirror?  And — damme! — he 
had  no  light!  .  .  . 

The  shoes  were  a  trifle  hard  to  draw  on — 
small  for  him.  The  breeches  were  badly  in 
need  of  pressing.  The  coat  was  stiff.  .  .  .  He 
began  opening  drawers  in  the  bureau — delv- 
ing through  piles  of  neatly  folded  linen  and 
silk.  At  last  he  chose  a  shirt  and  drew  it 
over  his  head.  He  laid  aside  the  purple 
satin  waistcoat  until  he  should  have  arranged 
his  stock,  which  he  found  tight  and  difficult 
to  make  meet  in  the  back.  But  he  finally 
got  it  adjusted,  brought  the  thick  wide  ends 
around  in  front,  tied  them  in  a  huge  bow,  the 

155 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

while  he  walked  over  to  the  window  and 
gazed  out.  .  .  .  Fine  night.  The  mist  had 
gone,  the  stars  were  dimly  appearing.  He 
turned  back  for  his  waistcoat  and  jacket.  .  .  . 
By  mistake  he  opened  the  closet  door  again 
instead  of  the  one  which  led  into  the  hall.  .  .  . 

"I  knew  you  would  come!"  she  said,  ap- 
proaching so  near  to  him  from  out  the  somber 
blackness  of  the  garments  which  draped  the 
walls  that  he  could  see  her  quite  plainly  by 
the  light  of  the  candle  in  her  hand.  She 
wasn't  a  day  over  twenty.  If  she  was  pale, 
it  was  more  the  pallor  of  fright  than  of  ill 
health,  or  perhaps  only  because  her  skin 
showed  so  white,  lit  up  by  the  faint  glare,  in 
contrast  to  her  deep  eyes  and  to  the  thick 
glossy  braids  bound  round  and  round  above 
her  forehead.  .  .  .  "John — John — won't  you 
speak  to  me?" 

He  took  a  step  forward,  faltering.  At  that 
moment  there  was  a  brusk  movement  be- 
side him,  and  he  turned  to  behold  there  a 
young  man,  dressed  in  knee-breeches,  wearing 
a  purple  waistcoat  and  velvet  coat,  as  like 
unto  himself  as  his  own  image. 

"Duty  bade  me  come,"  the  stranger 
answered,  stiffly,  as  if  it  was  for  His  ears  that 
her  words  had  been  intended. 

156 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

Hastings's  gaze  flew  to  meet  hers,  which  he 
was  astonished  to  find  still  directed  on  him 
instead  of  on  the  speaker.  .  .  .  He  felt  himself 
melted  to  pity  by  her  frailness  and  beauty 
and  charm,  so  that  he  turned  almost  angrily 
toward  the  intruder,  who  at  that  moment, 
however,  began  to  address  her  in  tones 
Hastings  could  but  admire: 

"To  you!"  cried  out  the  young  stranger. 
"  You,  for  whom  Duty  knows  no  promptings !" 

At  that  Hastings  turned  to  her  again,  his 
heart  rent  by  the  plea  she  uttered :  "  But  you 
love  me? — You  love  me? — Oh,  say  it  to 
me!  ..."  And  she  was  looking,  not  at  his 
counterpart;  she  was  imploring  him;  she 
was  stretching  her  arms  out  to  him;  she  had 
veritably  made  her  plea  to  him,  as  if  he  were 
the  one  who  had  elicited  it. 

"I  will  do  anything  for  you — anything!" 
he  would  have  promised  her  had  not  the 
threat  of  the  stranger  so  like  unto  himself 
interrupted. 

"Don't  mock  my  patience,  Lydia,"  Has- 
tings heard  as  once  more  he  shifted  his  eyes 
to  the  speaker. 

It  was  maddening  how  from  one  to  the 
other  of  them  his  sympathies  veered!  The 
sepulchral  voice  of  Him  seemed  to  express 

157 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

Hastings's  own  thoughts;  yet  her  sweet 
appeal  awoke  resentful  fury  for  what  words 
He  dared  say  to  her.  ...  If  only  Hastings 
might  explain,  when  she  stared  so  re- 
proachfully, that  it  was  only  He  who  had 
spoken ! . . . 

Momentarily  at  a  loss,  she  put  the  candle 
down  on  a  little  shelf.  She  rubbed  her 
hands  one  around  the  other,  as  if  her  doing 
so  might  lessen  the  affront  which  she  had 
now  somehow  to  meet.  When  at  last  she 
spoke,  her  calm,  even  tones  were  like  the 
loveliness  of  primroses;  her  eyes  were  brim- 
ming with  simple  trustfulness. 

"You  own  me,  O  my  husband,"  she  said, 
"heart — heart,  body,  and  soul.  Do  with  me 
what  you  will." 

Why  should  she  be  so  abject?  But  when 
Hastings  heard  the  voice  of  that  other  he 
was  again  awed  by  it. 

"Think  not  that  I  haven't  avenged  my- 
self!" the  voice  sneeringly  proclaimed. 

Hastings  looked;  for  the  first  time  he  no- 
ticed that  the  stranger's  arm  was  in  a  sling; 
there  was  a  mole  on  the  cheek  near  the  corner 
of  those  tightly  compressed  lips.  .  .  . 

She  shook  like  a  leaf  in  a  gale.  For  dread 
minutes  she  faced  Hastings  tremblingly. 

158 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S   HOUSE 

Coming  nearer  to  him,  she  murmured,  "Are 
you  badly  hurt,  my — my  husband?" 

Hastings  glanced  down  at  his  own  arm  on 
which  her  eyes  seemed  to  rest;  then  he  sud- 
denly beheld,  almost  as  one  beholds  oneself 
in  a  mirror,  his  counterpart  recoil  from  her 
reach,  the  while  He  exclaimed,  scornfully: 
"Don't — don't  touch  me!  Nor  pray  think 
that  your  wiles  will  ever  win  from  me  any 
forgiveness." 

She  stopped  stock-still. 

"Is  he  dead?"  she  demanded. 

"Ah,  then,  you  do  admit,  do  you,  that  you 
love  him?"  the  Other  flung  at  her.  "Say 
it  to  me — say  it  to  me — "  He  shouted,  and 
He  half  closed  His  eyes,  "or — by  Heaven! 
—I  will—" 

Hastings  felt  the  justice  of  this  accusation, 
and  turned  doubtingly  back  to  the  girl  for 
her  answer.  She  stared  at  him,  waiting. 

"What  is  the  use?"  she  asked,  in  despair. 
"Would  you  believe  me?" 

"If  you  confess,  I  will  believe  you," 
stated  the  stranger. 

It  seemed  to  Hastings  that  she  grew  visibly 
taller;  her  face  underwent  a  spasm  of  pain; 
and,  apparently  unable  longer  to  remain 
silent,  she  cried  out  to  him,  "  Can  it  be  that 

159 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

for  you  a  confession  is  more  to  be  believed 
than  aught  which  has  not  to  be  confessed?" 
And  Hastings  could  feel  the  touch  of  her 
hand — cold  on  his  wrist. 

But  the  Other  insisted  so  convincingly 
that  Hastings  looked  at  Him  once  more 
with  confidence. 

"The  truth,"  she  said,  sadly,  "is  only  for 
those  who  have  faith;  you — you  prefer  the 
sinner,  whom  you  may  crush  into  a  penitent. 
Your  egotism  demands  the  power  to  forgive; 
you  have  not  the  courage  to  love." 

The  stranger  took  a  step  nearer  her,  but 
she  was  looking  at  Hastings. 

"He  is  the  only  one  who  is  worthy  to 
believe  me — he  whom  you  blame  me  for 
loving.  I  do  love  him,  then — but  with  a 
love  no  codes  of  yours  can  understand.  For 
I  am  innocent — to  use  the  word  by  which 
you  forgivingly  call  the  unjustly  accused/' 

Hastings  quailed  beneath  the  bitterness  of 
her  irony;  he  saw,  too,  how  the  man  who  so 
resembled  him  fell  back  against  an  old  calico 
bag — stuffed  with  remnants  probably — that 
hung  on  a  hook  right  behind  where  He  had 
been  standing;  but  when  he  faced  her  once 
more  he  marveled  at  the  change  in  her 
appearance. 

160 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

Her  brows  were  raised — contracted  gently, 
resolutely;  her  eyes  were  yearningly  fixed  on 
Hastings;  her  lips  were  parted  tenderly  for 
the  generous  appeal  she  had  at  last  found  the 
need  to  make  to  him: 

" Forgive  me,  O  my  husband!"  she  begged. 
"Nothing  can  come  between  us.  Nothing 
shall.  But  I  could  not  love  you  as  I  do  if  I 
loved  not  others — if,  for  the  fugitive  love 
that  came  my  way,  I  should  give  in  exchange 
no  thanks.  You  understand  me?  You  would 
not  have  me  avoid  what  I  was  made  to  love? 
Any  more  than  you  would  have  me  disregard 
the  sunlight,  and  the  sea,  and  the  stars  in  the 
sky?  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  true,  my  husband — I  loved 
him.  He  said  that  my  fingers  on  the  spinet 
made  into  harmony  all  the  discords  of  the  day; 
he  said  that  I  wove  them  away — with  the  notes 
of  birds,  and  the  sound  of  running  brooks, 
and  the  sighing  of  the  wind — into  patterns — 
as  in  the  long  winter  evenings  I  could  spin 
flax  at  my  wheel.  ...  It  made  me  happy  to 
have  him  love  me.  It  filled  me  with  strength. 
It  taught  me  many  new  things  I  could  do 
for  you.  John — John — say  that  you  forgive 
me?" 

Though  Hastings  wanted  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  he  was  impelled  to  turn  away  from  her 

161 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

and  to  view  that  silent  figure  still  leaning 
against  the  calico  bag,  whose  head  was  lifted 
haughtily  in  deference  to  her  supplication. 

"He  loved  you,  too,"  she  continued  to 
Hastings,  "because  you  loved  me.  .  .  .  He 
did  not  mean  to  kiss  me."  She  just  raised 
her  hands — as  if  involuntarily — and  let  them 
fall  at  her  sides.  "You  thought  that  he  was 
stealing  me  from  you!  He  couldn't;  he 
can't;  and  nobody  can — now,  nor  ever.  .  .  . 
His  kiss  was  as  pure  as  the  perfume  of  roses, 
pressed  close  to  breathe;  it  but  made 
sweeter  your  love  and  mine — your  life  and 
mine." 

"Adulteress! — With  my  curses,  go  to  him, 
then,  forever!" 

The  cry  brought  Hastings  round  to  that 
Other  whose  presence  he  had  forgotten. 
But  next  moment  she  was  down  before  him. 
Hastings  felt  her  arms  tight  clasped  about 
his  knees. 

"My  husband — listen  to  me!"  she  im- 
plored. "I — we — there  is  somebody  else  to 
be  considered.  .  .  ."  Hastings  shuddered. 
"We — you  and  I — shall  be —  I  have  not 
told  you.  For  the  sake  of  our  child,  from 
you — that  child's  father — I  must  ask  for- 
giveness!" 

162 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

She  bowed  her  head  sobbingly  against 
Hastings.  He  put  his  hand  on  her  hair  and 
was  drawing  her  up  to  him  when  the  stranger 
rushed  forward  to  tear  her  fiercely  away. 

"Lies!  lies!"  the  stranger  ranted.  "Go  to 
him,  I  tell  you !  His  child,  his  mistress  shall 
not  dishonor  my  house.  Go  to  him,  for  he 
isn't  dead,  and  he  needs  you — you  who  are 
not  needed  here!" 

"Don't!  Don't!"  she  screamed  out  to 
Hastings.  "  I  am  your  wife.  I  shall  be  the 
mother  of  your  child!" 

Hastings  sprang  toward  her.  He  saw 
that  her  hands  were  raised  straight  up  in  the 
air.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  reach  forth  to 
her  the  stranger  darted  before  him,  caught 
the  gray  chiffon  from  her  shoulders,  and 
pressed  it  madly  on  her  throat.  .  .  .  Hastings 
leaped  upon  Him,  pulled  Him  away,  pinned 
Him  to  the  floor,  rolled  over  Him.  .  .  . 

She  had  gone.  The  room  was  in  dark- 
ness. 

Hastings  felt  for  the  door.  It  yielded.  . .  . 
He  opened  another  door,  and  stepped 
through. 

His  head  swam  in  the  midst  of  the  lights 
outside.  He  slunk  back  like  one  who  hesi- 
tates to  confront  the  unknown.  .  .  .  The 

163 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

stairs  were  there  before  him;  he  began  to 
descend — his  right  hand  held  forth,  his  eyes 
fastened  in  horror  upon  it.  Then — as  he 
heard  the  distant  hum  of  voices  below  him — 
once  more  pompous  and  erect  he  swung  down 
the  last  broad  treads  between  the  landing 
and  the  floor. 

A  servant  who  passed  him  uttered  a  cry 
and  vanished;  but  that  should  not  deter 
him.  With  long  strides  he  boldly  rounded 
the  familiar  corner  to  the  dining-room  door 
and  entered. 

He  flourished  his  right  hand  wildly  in  the 
air.  He  saw  that  it  was  bleeding.  .  .  . 

"See,  see!"  he  called  to  them.  "At  last 
he  is  dead.  I  have  killed  him !  I  have  killed 
him!" 

The  room  seemed  to  recede  in  the  distance. 
Something  snapped  inside  his  brain.  Every- 
thing was  different.  .  .  .  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Elliot, 
with  shrieks  of  terror,  were  moving  to  the 
pantry  door,  far  at  the  other  end.  Con- 
fusedly he  saw  Julia  try  to  force  herself 
toward  him;  saw  her  half  come;  heard  his 
name  on  her  lips.  He  wanted  to  smile,  he 
wanted  to  bend  down  over  her  affectionately; 
but  when  he  sought  to  reach  her  with  his 
bloody  hand  she  shrank  back — turned  and 

164 


MR.  EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

fled  with  the  others. . . .  He  shouted  to  them. 
But  he  stumbled,  and  thought  he  might  fall. 
He  caught  hold  of  the  table. 
After  that  all  was  blackness. 


He  awoke  amid  the  appointments  of  the 
chamber  which  Julia  had  called  "his  room." 
A  quick  flood  of  memories,  some  apparently 
clear  and  accurate,  others  vague  and  trou- 
blesome, inundated  his  tired  consciousness. 
Gradually  he  became  aware  of  a  thick  mud- 
dy pain  rolling  in  dreadful  rhythmic  waves 
through  his  head.  He  looked  toward  the 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  to  see  if  it  wasn't 
time  to  get  up.  .  .  .  He  met  the  eyes  of  Mrs. 
Elliot.  He  lifted  himself — falling  back  on 
the  pillow.  .  .  .  The  pillow  was  cold  as  death. 
. . .  She  came  over  to  him.  .  .  . 

"Dear  boy — you  feel  better?" 

"Better?  Better?"  he  echoed.  "Why  are 
you  here?" 

"Your  head  is  cooler.  .  .  .  You've  been — 
you — my  dear  child,  you  may  as  well  know 
it — you  fainted  last  night — yesterday.  You 
were  worn  out — you  caught  cold  and  had — a 
chill.  You  hadn't  eaten  anything  since — 
not  since — "  She  fondled  the  bed-clothes. 
"You'll  be  all  right  now.  Your  head — 

165 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

struck  something.  The  doctor  said  you 
weren't  to  talk — " 

It  hurt  him  to  move  his  eyes.  The  sockets 
ached.  He  tried  hard  to  realize  what  she 
had  told  him — repeating  snatches  of  it 
feverishly  over  to  himself.  .  .  . 

"Is  it  dangerous?"  he  finally  got  to  the 
point  of  asking. 

"No  —  a  slight  — just  a  very  slight  con- 
cussion." 

"Concussion?"  He  floundered  in  the 
horrible  meaning  of  it  until  Julia  came  in.  ... 
Every  time  he  spoke  they  begged  him  not 
to.  ...  She  looked  so  real  to  him,  so  natural, 
so  tangibly  alive.  When  she  put  her  face 
down  by  his  he  trembled  and  burst  out  cry- 
ing like  a  child.  .  .  .  He  was  afraid  she  would 
go  away.  .  .  .  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
her  hands  about  one  of  his.  The  other  hand 
lay  bandaged  on  the  counterpane.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  he  was  better,  but  he  wasn't 
allowed  to  get  up;  nor  was  he  sorry  not  to 
have  to  try.  The  weakness  which  followed 
the  first  shock  had  made  him  submissive  to 
the  situation ;  he  began  to  be  used  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  ill;  even  the  nurse's  presence  he 
philosophically  accepted,  so  resigned  was  he 
to  the  necessity.  He  asked  questions  con- 

166 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S   HOUSE 

cerning  his  pulse  and  temperature,  wanted  to 
know  if  the  bags  of  ice  could  be  dispensed 
with  soon.  Julia  read  aloud  to  him  for  an 
hour  every  morning. 

But,  having  a  half-attentive  interest  in 
what  she  read,  he  would  look  fixedly  at  her 
and  try  to  piece  together  his  jumbled  recol- 
lections. Partly  from  lack  of  strength, 
mostly  because  he  was  loath  to  admit  to 
anybody  that  his  brain  wasn't  normally 
clear,  he  let  the  questions  which  rose  to  his 
lips  pass  unuttered.  Once  he  exclaimed, 
irrelevantly,  "Where,  Julia,  did  that  por- 
trait come  from?"  And  when  he  caught  the 
intensity  of  her  stare,  he  looked  around  the 
walls,  and,  smiling  bashfully,  concealed  his 
embarrassment  by  saying,  "I'm  really  lis- 
tening, but  I  must  have  dozed  for  a  second." 
At  times  he  would  gaze  wonderingly  at  the 
ceiling,  lose  himself  following  the  lines  of  the 
panels  or  counting  the  little  square  panes  in 
the  window-sashes.  He  sometimes  slept, 
but  not  quite  soundly;  half  his  somnolence 
was  busy  with  irrational  calculations  beyond 
his  control. 

A  musty  smell  elusively  kept  fading  as 
soon  as  he  was  aware  of  it;  a  dim  room, 
in  which  the  windows  were  shut  close  and 

12  167 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

the  shades  pulled  down,  drifted  through  his 
quick  fancy  into  darkness.  He  would  find 
himself  deliriously  sorting  many  strange 
garments  into  piles,  counting  them,  opening 
drawers  to  take  others  from,  until  the  ac- 
cumulations drove  him  to  despair.  .  .  .  His 
right  hand  throbbed  under  the  tight  bandage ; 
he  kept  fingering  the  bandage  and  pressing  on 
the  sore  spots.  Everything  about  him  would 
seem  suddenly  definite  and  real  as  compared 
with  the  dismal  bewilderment  of  his  dreamings. 
Perhaps  the  doctor  would  enter,  with  profes- 
sional cheerfulness.  But  then,  right  in  the 
middle  of  answering  some  question,  Hastings 
would  be  blinded  by  a  great  rush  of  bright 
light  through  the  opened  door.  .  .  . 

A  day  came  when  all  these  phantasmagoria 
ceased  to  bother  him;  with  returning  vigor 
he  had  to  make  less  and  less  effort  to  forget 
them,  until  at  last  they  altogether  went. 
The  joy  of  new  health  swept  over  him,  filling 
the  gaps  and  low  miasmic  areas  of  his  men- 
tality, as  the  rising  tide  fills  the  empty  pools 
of  the  shore-land. 

in 

It  was  a  month  after  the  day  of  John 
Hastings's  arrival  at  Rockface.  Unlike  that 

168 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

day,  the  weather  was  sunny  and  mild,  and  big 
cumulus  clouds  moved  languidly  through 
the  sky  as  if  it  were  midsummer  instead  of 
late  October.  Julia  was  crocheting,  and  he 
was  watching  her.  They  were  sitting  in 
front  of  the  house,  on  a  leaf-strewn  grass- 
plot  near  the  avenue  between  the  lines  of 
larches  that — calm  now  in  the  windless  fore- 
noon— stretched  diagonally  from  the  street 
to  the  corners  of  the  bland  old  facade. 

"But  if  you  knew  all  along,"  he,  with  his 
habitual  freshness  of  wonder,  put  to  her, 
"that  it  was — that  it  is — really  Mr.  Eber- 
deen's  house,  why  in  the  name  of  things 
didn't  you  tell  me  then?" 

She  became  irritatingly  absorbed  in  her 
work. 

"I  thought,"  she  at  length  said,  "that  you 
were  pretending  not  to  know,  and  I  wanted  in 
that  case  to  discover  what  other — what  else 
you  might  be  holding  back  from  me." 

"Holding  back  from  you?  What  else?" 
he  echoed.  "What  else  was  there?" 

"  I  wasn't  sure,  you  see.  .  .  .  Nothing,  that 
/  knew,"  she  affirmed  frankly,  laughing 
away  the  sudden  shadow  of  anxiety  on  his 
face.  "There  was  another  reason,  though. 
There  was  something  which  I  had  been 

169 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

saving — for  the  very  last  moment — to  show 
you.  But  I  was  rather  ashamed  of  wanting 
to  so  much,  and — after  the  way  you  had 
taken  the  rest  of  the  house — I  hesitated;  just 
as  I,  finally,  was  going  to,  lunch  was  ready — 
remember?" 

Hastings  awkwardly  withdrew  his  right 
hand,  which  had  been  resting  palm  downward 
on  his  knee,  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Julia,"  he  cried  in  characteristic  disregard 
of  all  context,  "suppose  he  should  turn  out 
to  have  been — well — a  relative — or  some- 
thing? It  might  account,  you  know,  for  my 
asking  that  question,  and — and  for  how 
everything  here,"  she  looked  inclusively 
round  him,  "for  how  this  all  impressed  me 
so?" 

She  waited,  hopeful  of  the  time  having  at 
last  come  when  he  might  wish  to  confide  in 
her  whatever  it  was — if  indeed  he  knew — 
that  had  happened ;  but  he  only  ingenuously 
continued  to  hold  out  to  her  the  possibility 
of  his  new  idea. 

"No,"  she  told  him,  with  a  disappoint- 
ment which  she  couldn't  conceal,  "he  wasn't. 
I've  looked  up  his  entire  history.  He  died 
right  here — and  he  had  no  children.  Your 
pedigree  I  know  by  heart." 

170 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

Hastings  smiled  at  her  thoroughness. 

"What,"  he  exclaimed,  "if  some  un- 
recorded forebear  of  mine  has  eluded  you? 
Somebody,"  he  dreamily  improvised,  "who 
knew  this  house — who  was  familiar  with 
every  turn  of  the  road,  every  habit  of  the 
mist?  It's  just  such  a  snug  little  old  weather- 
worn town  like  Rockface,  where  any  New- 
Englander  is  likely  to  find  traces  of  forgotten 
ancestors." 

The  sound  of  footsteps  made  them  both 
look  toward  the  gate. 

"Who  is  it?  Why  is  he  coming  here?" 
Julia  demanded,  half  indignantly,  under  her 
breath. 

"The  same  old  man  I  met — but  so  much 
older!"  whispered  Hastings,  unexpectedly 
puzzled  whether  to  welcome  or  dread  this 
intrusion. 

"I  have  searched  the  streets  through  for 
him  ever  since,"  she  remonstrated;  "I  have 
asked  everybody  I  saw,  and  no  one  in  the 
whole  place  could  tell  me  of  any  old  man 
answering  his  description!" 

They  watched  his  slow,  difficult  approach 
over  the  gravel.  He  came  forward  without 
making  the  slightest  recognition  of  their 
presence.  Stopping  full  in  front  of  them,  he 

171 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

took  off  his  hat,  applied  a  straggling  red 
handkerchief  uncertainly  to  his  face,  and 
stared  up  at  the  house-front. 

"They  tell  me,"  he  muttered,  not  once 
looking  at  either  of  his  listeners,  "that  yer've 
been  and  sold  it.  So  yer  couldn't  stand  it, 
eh — after  all?  It's  what  Al  Makepeace  said 
'u'd  be  the  case.  Looks  innocent,  though,  as 
herself  did,  now  don't  it?  .  .  ." 

"We've  sold  it,"  Julia  protested,  "only 
because — because  we  can't  stay  here.  Jack 
— Mr.  Hastings — and  I  are  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. We  are  going  to  live  in  Europe.  My 
father  and  mother  didn't  want — " 

"Yer  can't  make  a  new  dog  out  of  an  old 
dog,  ner  learn  an  old  dog  new  tricks,"  he 
went  on,  disregardingly ;  "and  I  guess  it's 
the  same  fur's  houses  be  concerned." 

"Who  are  you,  anyway?"  Hastings  asked, 
getting  up  to  offer  the  old  man  a  chair. 

"Who  am  I?"  the  old  man  echoed,  sud- 
denly attentive.  "Dear  me !  dear  me !  Whose 
father  was  it  as  planted — and  I  had  his  own 
word  fer  it — all  these  'ere  tam'rack-trees,  and 
dug  the  well  by  the  south  door?  And  seen 
the  lady  of  the  house  herself,  mind  yer,  go 
out  'tween  them  stone  posts  fer  the  last 
time — and  darker  than  pitch  it  was,  too — 

172 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

on  her  way  that  night  she  went  to  meet 
Henry—" 

At  this  point  the  old  man  was  seized  by  a 
fit  of  coughing.  When  he  recovered  from  it 
he  just  stood  there,  gazing  ahead  of  him, 
shaken  with  the  palsy  of  years,  not  heeding 
the  questions  they  thrice  repeated  to  him. 

"No  wonder  yer  couldn't  sleep  in  it — with 
her  curse  on  the  big  empty  halls!  When 
the  crops  themselves  died  the  night  after- 
ward, without  a  sign  of  a  frost  comin'  down 
to  touch  them!  It  'us  the  devil's  own  guilt 
in  her  that  did  it,  Al  says.  .  .  .  Poor  man! 
Poor  man!  And  yer  tried  ter  dress  it  all  up 
like  a  corpse — as  if  yer  thought  it  'us  dead. 
Well,  it  came  to  life  on  yer,  did  it?"  he  mum- 
bled, laughing  incomprehensibly  to  himself. 
"When  yer  leavin'?  .  .  .  To-morrer?  Sooner 
the  better  fer  yer,  I  guess.  Good  day." 
With  which  parting  imprecation  the  old 
man  turned,  feebly  put  on  his  hat,  and 
dragged  himself  back  down  the  avenue 
whence  he  had  come. 

They  saw  the  last  vestige  of  him  disappear 
forever. 

"He's  like  a  broken  spirit  brooding  over 
the  neighborhood,"  Hastings  said,  shivering 
in  spite  of  himself. 

173 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Julia  began  to  crochet  again,  nervously 
absorbed  in  what  she  was  doing. 

"His  scattered  crazy  words  are  like  the 
last  gasp  of  the  little  village.  How  he 
epitomizes  all  the  cramped  pent-up  emotions 
of  the  starved  inhabitants  who  have  gone ! — 
all  the  passions  that  must  have  so  drearily 
burned  themselves  out  here,  with  nothing  to 
note  but  the  shifting  of  the  winds  or  the  dig- 
ging of  some  well !  They  who  were  obliged, 
from  sheer  ennui,  to  create  dramas  out  of  their 
Puritan  prejudices.  Can't  you  breathe  con- 
tagion in  the  very  atmosphere?  Julia,  I've 
had  enough  of  it;  I'm  glad  we're  going.  If 
I  stayed  here  a  month  longer  I  should  get  to 
feel  as  indigenous  as  that  gnarled  old  apple- 
tree.  The  ghosts  of  the  soul  would  claim 


me." 


She  stood  up  and  walked  away  from  him 
across  the  gravel  avenue,  as  if  doing  so  might 
help  her  to  seize  this  occasion  for  what  she 
had  decided  at  last  to  tell  him.  She  realized 
that  she  must  be  quick,  that  in  another  hour 
her  parents'  return  might  end  this  one  good 
opportunity  for  which  she  had  so  longed  and 
waited. 

"Jack  dear,"  she  said,  moving  back  toward 
him,  seeing  how  her  own  excitement  was  re- 

174 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

fleeted  in  the  way  he,  too,  had  arisen  and 
taken  a  few  steps  toward  her,  "to-morrow  is 
our  last  day,  and  there's  something  we  must 
talk  about  before  we  go." 

His  head  was  bowed,  his  eyes  focused  hard 
up  at  hers,  his  arms  hanging  beside  him ;  the 
sensitive  smile  hovered  more  and  more 
dimly  on  his  lips;  his  whole  body  swayed 
imperceptibly,  like  the  beating  of  a  pulse. 

"Jack,"  she  got  out,  going  still  closer  to 
him;  "  I  want  to  show  you — Mrs.  Eberdeen's 
room.  .  .  ." 

He  could  never  quite  realize  the  fullness  of 
the  shock  it  gave  him;  no  deliberate  attack 
could  have  been  so  vulnerably  aimed;  and 
the  completeness  of  the  blow  was  the  greater 
for  being  one  which  he  had  been  subconsciously 
preparing,  all  along,  to  receive. . . .  The  house 
looked  miles  away;  far  over  it  sadly  three 
ducks  flew  to  southward.  .  .  . 

On  the  landing  above  the  broad  part  of  the 
staircase  they  paused  a  moment.  Instead  of 
going  up  the  left  branch  which  led  to  Jack's 
door,  she  took  him  to  the  right,  where — at 
the  head  of  the  stairs — there  was  another 
door  directly  opposite  to  his.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  it  he  went  forward  quickly  and  turned 
the  knob.  It  stuck — it  was  locked;  and 

175 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

rather  timorously  he  stepped  back  to  meet 
Julia's  searching  look  as  she  handed  him  an 
old  rusty  key.  .  .  . 

The  musty  smell  poured  out  on  them  like 
the  damp  from  an  opened  vault. 

She  took  his  hand. . . .  They  stepped  across 
the  threshold.  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  lithograph  of  the  two  kittens — 
age-worn  and  time-blurred — still  crooked  on 
the  wall  beside  the  bureau;  there  was  the 
sand-shaker  on  the  maple  desk;  there  hung 
the  yellowed  print  of  "The  Last  Supper" 
above  the  fireplace — all  stark  and  ghostly  in 
that  uncannily  late  afternoon  light  which 
not  even  the  morning  sun  could  dispel. 

He  clutched  her  hand.  .  .  .  He  looked  at 
the  bed  which  hadn't  been  smoothed  or 
touched  since  he  had  lain  in  it  a  month  ago. 
He  remembered  it  as  uncomprehendingly  as 
one  remembers  mislaying  a  lost  object  in  a 
forgotten  place.  He  remembered  waking. 
But  the  rest  he  had  done  was  lost  in  the 
shadows. 

"So  this  is  where  it  really  happened — 
here!  How  have  I  ever  been  in  this  room 
before?" 

"What  happened?"  she  asked  him,  eagerly, 
firmly. 

176 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

"  I  fainted — before  I  was  sick.  But  why — 
why  here?"  he  begged. 

She  had  prepared  her  answer,  she  had 
many  times  rehearsed  it;  but  the  words  now 
served  inadequately.  "You  hadn't  eaten 
anything,"  she  stated,  softly.  "You  hadn't 
slept.  .  .  .  You  had  a  fever — and  your  brain 
was  so  tired  from — from  everything,  that 
when  you  started  for  your  room — the  one 
opposite,  which  I  had  shown  you  —  you 
carelessly  turned  to  the  right  and  came 
into  this  room  instead  —  which  I  hadn't 
had  a  chance  yet  to  tell  you  about.  .  .  . 
Haven't  you  ever  known — since — that  you 
did  it?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"This  is  'Mrs.  Eberdeen's  room,'"  she 
went  on.  "  It's  always  been  just  like  this — 
at  least  I  think  it  has — always,  since  the 
house  was  built.  I  kept  it  as  a  curiosity.  I 
called  it  Mrs.  Eberdeen's  room — because  the 
natives  said  she  was  wicked  and  bad  and 
brought  ruin  to  the  house,  and  I  reasoned  that 
that  might  be  why  nobody  had  taken  these 
things  or  changed  them — the  wall-paper,  I 
mean,  the  bed,  the  carpet,  the  paint,  the  pict- 
ures. .  .  .  And  there's  precisely  one  thing," 
she  impetuously  concluded,  as  if  unable 

177 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

longer  to  postpone  telling  him,  "that  I  myself 
have  added." 

Hastings  smiled  wanly  at  her.  She  guided 
him  round  to  the  wall  at  the  side  of  the  door, 
in  front  of  where  they  had  been  standing ;  she 
started  to  speak  again  before  he  saw  what  it 
was  which  she  had  referred  to;  and  so  her 
own  words  prevented  her  from  hearing  the 
smothered  sound  of  his  recognition. 

"I  found  this,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak 
carelessly  and  forcing  herself  steadfastly  to 
regard  it,  "in  an  old  shop  twelve  miles  down 
the  Poochuck  road.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  quaint?  I 
got  it — because,  Jack,  it  looked  like  you,  and 
— and  because  it  exactly  fitted  this  panel." 

But  her  attempted  gaiety  sank  dismally  in 
the  silence  which  followed.  They  just  stood 
there.  The  minutes  thudded  by.  Musti- 
ness  enwrapped  them.  .  .  .  Outside  the 
window  a  dead  piece  of  branch  fell  crackling 
to  the  ground.  .  .  .  Gradually  he  grew  to  be 
unconscious  of  her  presence,  so  sharp  and 
rapid  were  the  currents  which  successively 
swept  him;  and  her  petty  curiosity,  all  her 
poor  need  for  speculation,  was  lost  in  the 
depth  of  the  spell  cast  over  him  now.  She 
dared  not  look  at  him,  she  dared  not  take 
her  eyes  off  the  object  before  them.  .  .  . 

178 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S   HOUSE 

It  was  crudely  painted.  It  was  the  por- 
trait of  a  young  man — dressed  as  young  men 
dressed  a  hundred  or  more  years  ago.  He 
seemed  to  be  walking  forward  out  of  the 
picture.  In  many  places  the  pigment  was  so 
nearly  gone  that  the  brown  fuzz  of  canvas 
showed  through.  The  colors  clung,  delicate 
as  cobwebs,  to  the  stern  face  and  erect, 
stalwart  figure. 

"Who  is  it?"  Hastings  articulated,  scarce 
audibly.  But  though  he  had  to  speak — if 
only  to  save  himself  from  going  mad — his 
words  were  no  more  than  frail  signals  of  his 
distress ;  for  he  knew  that  he  alone  knew  the 
answer.  Electrically,  crashingly,  it  had  been 
borne  in  upon  him  at  almost  the  first  instant 
of  his  beholding  them  where  it  was  that  he 
had  seen  before  those  tightly  compressed 
lips,  with  the  mole  still  visible  near  the 
corner;  he  knew  those  calm,  cruel  eyes, 
still  averted  from  his  own;  in  a  flash  he  had 
identified  the  purple  satin  waistcoat.  .  .  . 

"You,  Jack" — she  faced  him  determin- 
edly. "You  looked  like  him;  you  seemed 
like  him — absolutely,  in  every  detail — when 
you  came  into  the  dining-room!" 

"When  I  came — ?"  he  repeated,  at  a  loss. 

"Yes.     It   wasn't   here — in   this   room — 

179 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

that  you  fainted.  You  went  outside — down 
the  stairs.  .  .  .  Elizabeth  saw  you.  .  .  .  You 
pushed  open  the  dining-room  door.  Mother 
— father — I,  we  all  saw  you  come  in — like 
that!"  She  pointed. 

"Yes,  yes  .  .  .  yes.  I  remember — I  did 
put  them  on.  .  .  ." 

"But  you  didn't,  you  couldn't  have! 
There  weren't  any  such  clothes.  .  .  .  Oh,  Jack 
— don't  you  understand  me? — you  weren't 
really  wearing  them!" 

All  at  once  he  felt  something  crunch  be- 
neath his  feet,  and  he  looked  down,  then  back 
up  at  the  portrait.  The  large  square  of 
glass  which  apparently  once  covered  it  had 
been  shattered;  there  were  a  few  triangles 
still  sticking  in  the  edge  of  the  frame;  the 
rest  was  in  smaller  bits  on  the  floor. 
Instinctively  he  brought  his  right  hand  to  a 
level  with  his  face,  and  saw  the  scar  upon 
it.  ... 

"It's  a  mystery,  Jack  dear,  can't  you  see 
it  is?  And  it's  so  much  more  interesting 
never  to  explain  it!"  she  essayed,  fearfully, 
feigning  a  laugh  of  regained  naturalness. 
"We  shall  never  find  out  who  he  was,  by 
whom  it  was  painted — or  what  made  you 
break  it — or  why — " 

180 


MR.   EBERDEEN'S  HOUSE 

"Ah!"  he  shouted,  eagerly,  defying,  as  the 
memories  came  crowding  into  his  brain,  the 
doubts  which  had  freshly  assailed  him.  "I 
told  you  it  might  be  possible!  And  he  did 
have,  after  all — for  that  man  was  the 
father  of  her  child!" 

"Whose  child?"  Julia  gasped. 

But  love  and  pity  for  her  whom  he  could 
not  name  kept  him  from  answering.  And  in 
the  drift  of  his  silence  the  vision  capriciously 
failed  him.  .  .  .  He  looked  at  Julia.  He 
looked  back  at  the  wall.  It  was  nothing 
but  a  funny  old  picture  which  hung  there 
confronting  them!  The  commonplaceness, 
beside  it,  of  Julia's  long-drawn  expression, 
made  him  snicker;  until,  as  a  result  of  this 
accidental  reaction,  they  were  both  actually 
giggling  aloud. 

He  turned  away  from  her.  She  watched 
him  cross  to  the  bureau.  He  pulled  out  each 
one  of  the  drawers  in  turn.  He  peered  blankly 
into  them,  where  there  was  only  the  smell  of 
mold  and  whirring  dust  to  greet  his  pains. 

He  persistently  scanned  the  room  again. . . . 
What  had  become  of  the  hat-  tub?  Why  had 
the  Chinese  water-jug  gone  from  the  squalid 
little  wash-stand?  .  .  .  Baffled  and  solemn,  he 
went  back  over  to  her. 

181 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

"Haven't  you  taken  some  things  away?" 

"  Nothing.  Not  even  so  much  as  a  splinter. 
What  are  you  trying  to  find?" 

Timidly  catching  her  hand,  he  cried, 
"Come  with  me,  please."  And  he  drew  her 
to  the  closet  door.  But  when  he  opened  it 
he  let  go  her  hand  in  his  amazement. 

A  slit  of  window  at  the  far  end  let  in  a  ray 
of  sun.  There  were  rows  and  rows  of  wooden 
hooks,  but  there  seemed  nothing  on  them. 
Steeling  himself  boldly  to  view  it,  he  turned 
to  where  there  might  have  dangled  that 
calico  bag  stuffed  with  pieces,  against  which 
the  stranger  had  leaned.  He  went  forward 
and  felt  over  the  empty  spaces  to  satisfy 
himself.  .  .  . 

"Yes,  Julia,"  he  slowly  brought  out,  "you 
are  right;  "it  was  a  dream — a  mystery." 
And  he  nodded  vacantly  to  her. 

"  If  only,  Jack,  you  could  remember  it  all !" 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him.  But 
just  as  she  was  coming  nearer  he  caught 
sight  of  something  lying  between  them  on  the 
floor.  He  darted  for  it,  picked  it  up,  and 
ran  with  it  out  of  the  shadow.  Then — in 
terror — he  saw  that  it  was  a  piece  of  crumpled 
gray  chiffon,  and  that  there  were  the  stains 
of  blood  upon  it. 

182 


THE  TWO   LOVERS 

ONE  evening  in  that  season  of  the  year 
when  girls  are  taken  to  the  country  by 
their  parents  and  unattached  young  business 
men  are  abandoned  by  theirs,  Lenny  West 
and  Sam  Lewis  were  to  meet  again,  as  they 
so  often  used  to  do,  and  dine  and  go  in  search 
of  adventure.  It  was  remarkable,  consider- 
ing the  countless  rollicking  evenings  they  had 
spent  together  in  the  past,  that  recent 
events,  whatever .  they  were,  should  have 
kept  them  apart  so  long.  There  they  had 
been  all  the  time — living  in  the  same  town, 
doing  the  same  sorts  of  things,  apparently, 
as  before;  but  they  had  scarcely  met  since 
midwinter.  Each  looked  forward  to  this 
meeting  now  with  a  bound  of  enthusiasm. 
The  prospect  was  a  sudden  fillip  in  the  lives 
of  both. 

Lenny  glanced  at  his  watch  and  hurried 
faster.   He  felt  pleasantly  conscience-stricken 
13  183 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

for  having  deserted  his  friend  these  last 
months,  and  thought  over  what  he  would 
tell  him,  and  smiled  at  what  he  wouldn't, 
and  stood  straight,  and  strode  ahead  more 
pompously.  After  all,  it  was  good  to  be 
having  an  "off"  evening  like  this  for  a 
change. 

Sam  was  already  at  the  appointed  place, 
giving  his  trousers  a  hitch  now  and  then, 
impatient  for  a  cocktail  and  the  fun  it 
would  be  to  take  Lenny  by  the  arm  and 
accompany  him  down  to  the  bar  as  in  the  old 
days.  There  is  a  something,  he  thought, 
about  this  kind  of  a  time  that  I've  missed 
awfully. 

But  his  first  impression  as  Lenny  rushed 
in  through  the  door  and  up  to  where  he  sat 
was  that  Lenny  had  changed.  His  next  was 
of  how  little  Lenny  really  knew  him — poor 
Len!  Wouldn't  his  eyes  open  wide  if  he 
only  did  really  know?  And  Lenny,  on  his 
part,  was  thinking  that  Sam  had  grown 
mysteriously  older  and  sadder. 

They  exchanged  profuse  greetings,  and 
arguments  as  to  why  they  hadn't  met 
oftener,  and  said,  "You're  looking  well, 
Len,"  and,  "Pretty  fit  yourself,  Sammy," 
and,  arm  in  arm,  started  down-stairs.  It 

184 


THE  TWO   LOVERS 

was  already  somehow  different  from  what 
they'd  counted  upon — which  made  each  one 
think  it  was  his  own  fault  and  try  harder  to 
be  sociable. 

"What  you  been  doing  the  whole  spring — 
and  winter?"  Sam  asked,  in  a  tone  which 
rather  implied  he  had  the  advantage. 

"Not  much.  Don't  see  where  all  the 
time's  gone  to,"  said  Lenny,  confidently  at  a 
loss.  Then  it  appealed  to  him  for  some  rea- 
son to  add,  "I've  been  reading  quite  a  lot." 

"You?    Reading?" 

"Yes.  Read  anything  interesting  lately, 
Sam?" 

"No.  I  don't  go  in  for  that  stuff  a  great 
deal." 

Lenny  grew  solemn,  mystified  that  Sam 
had  discarded  a  field  he  himself  had  but  just 
acquired. 

"I've  cut  it  out — another  cocktail?" 

"If  you  want  one." 

"All  right,  then.     Let's  go  eat." 

Once  they  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in 
agreeing  what  dishes  to  order,  but  they 
seemed  to  have  acquired  very  definite  and 
disparate  ideas  on  everything  from  soup  to 
coffee.  The  trouble  with  him  is,  thought 
Lenny,  that  he  hasn't  anybody  to  knock 

185 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

those  immature  notions  out  of  his  head;  and 
Sam  thought:  Lenny's  getting  old-maidish — 
his  selfishness  is  growing  on  him. 

However,  they  clung  to  the  belief  that  it 
was  to  be  a  grand  occasion,  and  got  din- 
ner started,  and,  with  the  help  of  some 
wine  and  cigarettes,  struck  up  something 
resembling  their  intimate  tone.  They  really 
warmed  to  it  finally — Lenny  said  it  was 
"like  old  times,"  and  Sam  that  they'd  have 
"a  large  evening  yet,"  and  they  declared 
they  wouldn't  drift  away  from  each  other  so. 

"Isn't  that  Benson  ensconced  over  there?" 
asked  Lenny. 

"With  that  parlor  chap,  you  mean?" 

"You  always  said  he  was  clever,  though." 

"Undergraduate  stuff,  Len.  I — I  think 
the  dry-goods  clerk  behind  you,  who  married 
the  parcels  girl,  probably,  and  hires  a  gold- 
oak  flat  in  the  suburbs,  is  cleverer  than  he." 

"  So  do  I!"  exclaimed  Lenny,  as  if  from  the 
very  depths  of  his  soul,  gazing  fervently 
around. 

They  sat  for  an  hour  over  the  cigars.  Sam 
began  to  notice  various  new  long  words  that 
had  crept  into  Lenny's  vocabulary,  some  of 
which  were  hardly  idiomatic,  and  he  re- 
marked upon  it,  and  Lenny  grew  red. 

186 


THE  TWO  LOVERS 

"I  never  heard  you  promulgate  so  much 
slang/'  parried  Lenny. 

Their  geniality  petered  out.  There  came 
a  lull. 

"What  shall  we  do  now?"  Sam  asked, 
anxious  to  try  his  utmost  to  leaven  it. 

"Yes,  what  will  we?  We  can  think  up 
some  excitement  easy  enough,"  was  Lenny's 
reluctant  encouragement. 

"Something  not  too  reckless,  do  you  think, 
to-night,  Len?" 

"Well,  how — how  about  a  theater?" 

They  went  over  the  list,  heartlessly  hope- 
ful. There  were  only  two  shows  worth 
thinking  of — one  a  musical  comedy,  the 
other  a  play  called  "The  Oasis." 

"Oh,  let's  go  to  that,"  cried  Lenny, 
genuinely  eager,  now  that  he  remembered 
where  he'd  heard  the  name. 

"I  hate  those  highbrow  dramas  with 
nothing  doing  in  them,"  objected  Sam. 

"Don't  like  highbrow  things  any  more?" 

"Give  me  musical  comedies  every  time." 

"I  vowed  I'd  never  go  see  another  comic 
opera,  Sam,  after  I  saw — " 

"  I  guess  you  can  stand  this  one,  all  right. 
They  say  it's  bang-up." 

"Who  says  so?" 

187 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"I — I  can't  remember.  But  shall  we  try 
it?" 

"I — I've  seen  it,"  said  Lenny,  growing  red 
again. 

"Damn  it,  then,  we'll  go  to  'The  Oasis'!" 

The  first  act  was  well  along.  Lenny 
wasn't  really  constituted  to  take  an  intelli- 
gent interest  in  that  sort  of  play  ever, 
but  he  thought  and  said  it  was  immensely 
good;  whereas  Sam,  who  was  interested 
in  spite  of  himself,  thought  and  said  it 
bored  him  terribly.  When  it  was  over, 
they  walked  out  and  down  the  street,  rather 
silently,  abashed  and  distant,  both  wonder- 
ing whether  to  make  a  last  effort  to  redeem 
themselves.  This  evening  of  adventure  was 
to  have  meant  too  much  to  be  abandoned 
quite  thus. 

"We  might  go  in  here  for  a  bite  or  some- 
thing," Sam  suggested,  in  despair. 

"I  suppose  so." 

Sam  was  tired  and  sleepy,  and  secretly 
longed  to  go  home  to  bed.  But  he  said: 

"  I  tell  you,  Lenny — I  can  get  my  car  out 
and  run  you  down  to  Seeley's?" 

"Why — have  you  got  a  car?" 

"Yes.     Want  to?" 

Seeley's  was  a  roadhouse.     What  was  the 

188 


THE  TWO   LOVERS 

point,  thought  Lenny,  of  two  men  going  to 
Seeley's?  Where  was  there,  anyway,  for 
two  men  to  go  together?  But  the  same 
mixture  of  friendliness  and  disappointment 
that  had  prompted  Sam's  proposal  drove 
him  on  to  accept  it. 

"Fine.  That  sounds  better,  Sam,  old 
fellow." 

He  tried  to  whistle.  Sam  took  his  arm. 
Lenny  bent  his  up  stiffly  in  response.  They 
walked  with  deliberate,  sprightly  steps  to 
emphasize  their  enthusiasm — their  minds  far 
away. 

It  was  a  still,  mellow  evening.  The  moon 
hung  misty  at  the  end  of  the  street.  Stray 
girls,  wearing  light  thin  dresses  and  bright- 
colored  silk  sweater-like  coats,  strolled  fac- 
ilely  past  them,  or  loitered  in  batches  on  the 
corners.  The  air  was  heavy  and  dense  and 
fragrant  for  the  city.  Lenny  stopped  whis- 
tling. Sam  began  to  hum.  Instinctively 
they  both  fell  into  a  swinging  gait  to  hide 
their  sense  of  awkwardness. 

But  they  felt  nearer,  more  intimate,  getting 
the  car  out  and  putting  down  the  top. 
Lenny  laughed  sincerely  when  the  self- 
starter  failed  to  work. 

"The  idea  of  your  driving  a  car,  Sam!" 

189 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"  I  Ve  wanted  awfully  to  get  a  hold  of  you 
and  take  you  out  in  it  some  night." 

"Remember  that  Hup  I  had  in  college? 
We  must  have  gone  near  a  hundred  thousand 
in  her/' 

"You're  an  old  hand,  of  course.  What  you 
driving  nowadays,  Len?" 

"Nothing — just  now." 

"How's  that?"  Sam  threw  out  cheerfully 
as  the  way  cleared  before  them. 

"No  reason,"  said  Lenny — weighing  the 
reason  seriously. 

The  journey  was  over  very  quickly,  though 
it  was  a  whole  half-hour  to  Seeley's.  They 
recalled  and  discussed  all  sorts  of  escapades 
they  had  had  together,  unexpectedly  stimu- 
lated by  these  recollections,  but  always  stop- 
ping short  of  certain  details,  each  perfectly 
unaware  that  the  other  intended  to.  If 
Lenny,  for  instance,  stumbled  on  to  one  and 
hesitated,  Sam  changed  the  subject,  and  vice 
versa,  without  either  noticing  the  other's 
adroitness.  They  grew  happy,  felt  back  on 
their  old  footing — well  embarked,  now,  in 
their  habitual  spirits — and  abandoned  them- 
selves to  the  familiar  moment,  without 
thought  of  the  future.  But  when  they  drew 
up  before  the  brilliantly  lighted  hostelry  the 

190 


THE  TWO  LOVERS 

daring  of  each  in  his  seclusion  sank.  Streams 
of  fox-trots  and  feminine  babel  swelled  to  an 
embarrassing  din  as  Sam  stopped  the  car. 

"I  suppose  I  can  leave  it  here,"  he  re- 
marked, hollowly. 

"Almost  anywhere,  I  should  think,"  whis- 
pered Lenny. 

They  sat  for  a  moment  desperately,  the 
tones  and  voices  becoming  more  and  more 
real  around  them. 

"Want  to  get  out?"  ventured  Sam. 

"That's  the  thing  to  do,  I  guess,"  bravened 
Lenny. 

"All  right." 

"We'll  get  a  table  by  the  piazza — remem- 
ber, Sam?" 

"We  hit  on  a  good  night,  Len,  didn't  we?" 

"Guess  we'll  have  to  give  Pickles  a  V 
to-night." 

"  Pickles?  ...  Of  course  we  will.  Come  on 
now." 

The  voices  lessened  as  if  at  their  approach. 
There  came  an  intermission,  too,  in  the  fox- 
trotting. Girls  stared  avidly.  "Two  stun- 
ning boys,"  was  the  verdict  stealthily  passed 
from  mouth  to  ear.  But  the  objects  of  this 
commendation  could  have  felt  no  more  fal- 
tering or  out  of  place  had  they  been  country 

191 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

« 

bumpkins.  Each  gave  a  clandestine  glance 
at  each.  They  forgot  the  tip  they  had 
agreed  upon. 

But  Pickles  spied  them  out  of  the  herd  and 
ran  forward  and  led  them  to  the  best  big 
round  table  near  the  piazza,  where  they  sat 
huddling  together  on  one  side  of  it,  lighting 
cigarettes  and  pretending  to  peer  gaily  and 
alertly  about  at  the  motley  revelers. 

Presently  a  petite,  short-skirted,  high- 
heeled  girl  in  muslins  sauntered  in  from 
behind  Lenny,  and  ran  her  hand  over  his 
hair,  and  paused. 

"Some  stranger!"  she  said. 

"Yes.  Yes,  I  am.  I've  been — I've  not 
been  here  for  a  long  time,"  Lenny  brought 
out  dazedly,  but  with  such  irresistible  polite- 
ness that  the  girl  sat  down  beside  him.  Sam 
shuddered  and  pushed  his  chair  farther  away, 
smoking  fast.  In  another  minute  a  tall  girl 
had  come  and  planted  herself  at  his  elbow 
on  the  other  side.  He  scrutinized  her  as  if 
uncertain  of  her  origin  and  species.  Then  a 
man  came  over  after  her.  Then,  all  at  once, 
without  any  warning  or  order  or  sequence,  a 
whole  group  of  girls  were  at  the  table. 

Lenny  coped  with  his  share  of  respon- 
sibilities as  best  he  could,  tortured  by  fear 

192 


THE  TWO  LOVERS 

and  doubt  and  studied  distaste,  until  he 
didn't  know  what  else  to  say  or  do.  It  was 
like  a  nightmare.  Thank  Goodness,  Sam 
was  there.  He  would  have  to  give  some  ex- 
cuse to  him  now  and  get  out.  He  turned — 

"Sam!  Sam!"  he  called,  frantically. 

The  music  was  starting  again.  The  floor 
was  a  whirl  of  dark-coated  men  and  flimsy 
dresses.  Lenny  gaped  toward  the  door  they 
had  entered  in  vain — the  way  was  blurred 
and  scattered  and  terrifying. 

"Your  friend's  gone!"  a  voice  screamed  in 
his  ear. 

"Where  to?  Tell  me  where?"  Lenny 
grabbed  her  arm. 

"His  girl  took  him  out.     Come,  dance." 

Lenny  moved  to  her  side  automatically, 
but  trembled  and  drew  back  to  the  table. 

"I  can't  now,"  he  cried,  standing  firmly  by 
the  table,  his  fist  clenched  upon  it,  his  hair 
awry.  "I've  got  to  go — out,  too.  I — I 
must  telephone." 

"Let  me  go  with  you." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  You  wait  here,"  he  commanded.  "  I'll  be 
back!" 

His  eyes  went  the  gamut  of  their  faces. 
He  gave  them  all  a  wonderful  stare,  without 

193 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

seeing  any  one  or  heeding  who  importuned 
him  so  shrilly,  and,  with  his  hands  thrust 
deep  into  his  pockets,  turned  off  through  the 
deafening  ragtime  and  the  dancers  to  the 
piazza  door.  Breathing  there  more  freely, 
he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  in  gratitude 
and  waved  a  hand. 

"Hurry  up!"  they  piped  in  unison. 

He  nodded  once  more  gratefully,  then 
sprang  across  the  piazza,  vaulted  the  high 
railing,  and  landed  on  all-fours  in  a  flower- 
bed freshly  garnished. 

Sam  had  made  what  he  congratulated 
himself  afterward  was  a  quick  getaway  in  the 
other  direction  before  the  trouble  got  worse 
and  the  intermission  ended,  casting  fearful 
glances  behind  him  as  he  sped  through  the 
empty  dance  space  between  the  tables  lest 
Lenny  detect  his  flight.  Beyond  the  door 
he  also  breathed  more  freely,  and  nodded 
gratefully  to  Pickles,  who  stood  there 
grinning. 

"Isn't  there  some  quiet  corner  away  from 
all  this  row,  Pickles,  where  I  can  wait  in 
peace  for  my  friend  to  amuse  himself?  I've 
— got — a — a — headache. ' ' 

Pickles,  always  solicitous  and  expectant, 
conducted  him  to  a  sheltered  vestibule  where 

194 


THE  TWO  LOVERS 

there  was  a  reading-lamp  and  a  Morris 
chair. 

"Shut  the  door,  Pickles.  This  is  sublime. 
.  .  .  Are  you  a  married  man,  Pickles?" 

"I  sure  am,  sir." 

"Children,  Pickles?" 

"Twins,  sir,  and  a  boy." 

"Some  happy,  eh?" 

"As  the  day  before  I  was  wed,  sir.  There's 
not  a  hard  word  passes  between  us,  sir,  and 
it's  four  years  come  next  Columbus  Day." 

Sam's  eyes  gleamed. 

"Have  you  got  a  house,  Pickles?" 

Pickles  bowed,  rubbing  his  hands  for  lack 
of  a  better  word  to  express  it. 

"And  a  garden — and  a  Victrola,  sir." 

Sam's  eyes  glowed. 

"Rather  hard  on  her  to  have  you  stay  out 
nights  like  this,  Pickles." 

"She  has  a  plateful  and  something  hot 
always  there  for  me  when  I  get  back,  sir,  and 
herself  to  ease  me  with  a  lovin'  word — and 
the  mornin's  make  up  for  the  evenin's,  sir." 

Sam  reached  in  his  pocket  and  pulled 
forth  a  crisp  five-dollar  bill. 

"Come  back  and  tell  me  all  about  it, 
Pickles.  I'll  be  here  for  the  next  hour  or  so, 
probably.  And  don't  say  where  I  am." 

195 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"No,  sir.  I'll  come  back  in  a  minute, 
sir." 

Outside,  he  shut  the  door  gently,  and 
crossed  himself  and  vowed  to  atone  for  his 
lies  by  going  to  confession  the  first  Saturday 
he  got  off.  Inside,  Sam  lay  back  in  the 
Morris  chair  and  gave  himself  up  to  all 
manner  of  blissful  ruminations.  .  .  .  Unlike 
him  to  have  talked  to  a  servant  so  volubly — 
but  what  a  rare  fellow  a  man  like  Pickles  was 
if  you  only  knew  him!  It  was  a  joy  to  find 
somebody  who  wasn't  ashamed  to  proclaim 
that  his  love  didn't  sicken  and  die.  .  .  . 
Such -like  thoughts  were  as  spice  to  his  own 
dreams. 

Lenny,  meanwhile,  had  got  up  from  the 
flower-bed  where  he  landed,  and  shaken  off 
the  dirt,  and  picked  his  way  over  the  soft, 
savory  soil  to  the  avenue,  smiling  and  con- 
tent. He  walked  along  furtively,  careful  not 
to  be  seen.  The  night  was  radiant.  A  ripple 
of  breeze  waved  itself  over  the  high  grasses 
from  the  south,  caressing  his  temples.  The 
jiggy  music  and  the  babel  of  feminine  voices 
appealed  to  him  now  he  was  out  of  reach. 
He  stole  cautiously  round  to  the  front  of  the 
building.  The  parking  space  was  deserted. 
He  wedged  himself  in  among  the  serried 

196 


THE  TWO  LOVERS 

automobiles  until  he  found  Sam's.  Reas- 
sured, he  felt  of  the  tires,  flicked  a  bit  of  mud 
from  a  guard,  looked  to  see  that  the  rear 
light  was  burning,  and  experienced  a  thrill  of 
friendliness  and  constancy.  He  sighed  in 
puzzled  satisfaction  and  gazed  up  at  the  sky. 
Then  he  wandered  aimlessly  away  over  the 
high  grasses  until  he  came  to  a  spot  by  a  stone 
wall,  where  he  threw  himself  down  and 
relaxed  in  utter  security. 

The  moon  had  grown  larger  and  yellower 
and  lower.  He  watched  its  rim  come  to  the 
horizon's  edge,  and  the  whole  golden  orb 
drift  ecstatically  down  out  of  sight.  Katy- 
dids were  repeating  their  monotonous  pleas 
everywhere.  Why  did  they  make  that  sound 
so  incessantly,  so  elatedly?  Now,  in  the 
distant  chorus  of  frogs,  a  falsetto  trill  soared 
forth,  distinct  and  passionate  as  a  night- 
ingale's song.  Why  did  that  owl  hoot  so 
just  then?  Why  did  the  bough  of  the  tree 
above  him  droop  and  sway  like  that  in 
languor?  He  folded  his  arms  firmly  over  his 
chest,  pressing  it  hard,  and  clutched  a 
shoulder  in  each  hand. 

It  seemed  but  a  short  while  afterward 
that  he  roused  himself  and  decided  to  go  in 
search  of  Sam.  But  the  music — it  had 

197 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

stopped,  hadn't  it?  He  quickened  his  pace. 
No;  the  band  was  just  starting  again — 
playing  "Good  night,  ladies"  to  waltz-time. 
He  took  out  his  watch  and  struck  a  match. 
Gee  whiz!  How  late  it  was!  A  good  many 
of  the  automobiles  had  departed — long  since, 
probably.  Lenny  brushed  down  his  hair 
with  his  hands  and  ran  up  the  steps. 

There  in  the  office  stood  Sam  by  the  to- 
bacco counter,  talking  intensely  to  a  clerk 
on  the  other  side  of  it.  As  he  saw  Lenny  he 
leaned  over  the  counter  and  said,  the  ring  of 
conviction  in  his  voice,  "You'll  never  regret 
it— it's  the  whole  thing,  I  tell  you!"  After 
which  he  swung  about  and  came  over  to 
Lenny. 

"Where's  your  girl,  Sam?" 

Sam's  face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes 
sparkling,  and  it  took  him  a  minute  to 
"twig,"  as  he  called  it. 

"Oh,  she's  gone  home,"  he  laughed. 
"Where's  yours?" 

"Same  place  by  now,  I  guess." 

"Any  good,  Len?" 

"Well,  I  wasn't  perfectly  crazy  about  her, 
to  tell  the  truth." 

They  looked  at  each  other  squarely,  as  if 
at  last  again  on  a  comfortable  basis,  and 

198 


THE  TWO  LOVERS 

strolled  off,  arm  in  arm,  genuinely  glad  to 
find  themselves  together.  The  evening  was 
safely  spent,  and  the  crisis  was  passed, 
and  they  were  only  close  friends — as  they 
always  had  been  and  always  would  be. 
Any  qualms  of  regret  for  their  enforced 
indirection  was  transcended  by  relief  that 
they  hadn't  seemed  to  funk  their  advent- 
ure. If  each  was  a  little  sad  for  some 
reason,  each  thought  it  was  for  the  other's 
sake,  and  felt  drawn  closer  to  him  in  con- 
sequence. 

"Small  drink  now,  Len?" 

"Possibly.  Isn't  it  nearly  time  we  were 
getting  under  way?" 

"Let's  go  now!  We've  stayed  just  long 
enough — got  all  the  cream  of  it,  don't  you 
think?" 

Jubilantly  they  went  for  their  hats,  and 
to  Sam's  car,  and  jumped  in,  side  by  side. 

"  My !  it's  good  to  get  out  in  the  air  again !" 
said  Sam. 

"I  didn't  realize  it  was  so  cool,"  said 
Lenny,  blushing. 

"Naturally  not,  old  top!  I  was  kind  of 
tired  to-night,  I  believe." 

"Do  you  mind  not  going  so  fast?"  Lenny 
pleaded,  farther  on. 

14  I** 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"Since  when  have  you  acquired  this  ani- 
mosity to  speed,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

"It's  so  beautiful  to-night,  Sam!" 

"You — with  your  beauty!" 

"I  don't  mind,  then.  Better  run  faster, 
perhaps.  It's  so  late." 

"I've  got  the  habit  somehow.  Hate  to 
go  slow." 

Each  abandoned  all  thought  of  the  other 
for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  They  exchanged 
a  few  spontaneous  sentences  when  they  put 
up  the  car,  and  parted  with  expressions  of 
reluctance. 

"It's  been  bully,  Len.  We've  pulled  off 
one  of  our  successes,  haven't  we?" 

"I've  enjoyed  every  minute." 

"We  must  have  another  soon." 

"  I'll  call  you  up  in  a  day  or  so." 

"Don't  forget,  now." 

They  weren't  pretending,  either.  The 
evening  did,  looking  back  over  it  now,  seem 
all  it  had  promised  to  be.  There's  nobody 
like  Lenny,  Sam  thought ;  and  there's  nobody 
like  Sam,  thought  Lenny.  They  were  a 
trifle  sleepy,  to  be  sure — they  yawned  sev- 
eral times  as  they  wended  their  separate 
ways. 

Nevertheless,   each,   when  he  got  'home, 
200 


decided  to  write  a  letter;  the  occasion  and 
mood  of  each  demanded  it.  Lenny  had  to 
tell  about  the  moon  and  katydids  and  the 
owl,  and  what  needs  they  awoke  in  his 
breast ;  Sam,  all  about  Pickles  and  whatever 
it  was  the  tobacco  clerk  said  that  inspired 
him  so.  Both  of  them  told  of  a  delightful 
lonely  evening  they  had  had  together. 

The  addresses  ot  those  letters  were  re- 
spectively as  follows: 

One,  a  blond  girl,  with  dark  eyes  and 
lashes.  She  had  spent  this  same  evening  in 
the  company  of  a  somewhat  older  man,  com- 
paring Maeterlinck  and  H.  G.  Wells — over- 
weeningly  thrilled  by  the  consciousness 
that  she  was  living  a  romance,  with  her 
allotted  lover  alas!  far,  far  distant  from  her, 
and  by  the  sense,  too,  of  how  incomparably 
romantic  the  while  was  a  chance  companion, 
who  could  share  so  many  of  her  soul's  tastes 
and  subtle  discernments,  which  poor  dear 
Lenny — such  was  life — could  never  learn  to 
appreciate ! 

The  other,  a  brunette,  with  light  blue 
eyes.  She  had  just  been  to  a  party  with  the 
white-flanneled  lad  who  lived  next  door,  and 
who  wasn't — worse  luck — reliable  like  her 

serious  Sam  of  whose  society  she  was  so 

201 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

cruelly  deprived  at  the  moment — oh  no! — 
but  who  did  have  it  all  over  him  as  far  as 
dancing  and  small  talk  went,  however  vainly 
Sam  might  try  to  emulate  all  those  things 
she  valued  most  in  a  man! 


VI 

THE  VISIT   OF   THE  MASTER 

"TTAVE  you  ever  read  any  of  Marian 

JLl.  Haviland  Norton?" 

I  didn't  expect,  when  I  put  the  question,  to 
fall  right  into  a  mine  of  information.  It  was 
out  of  my  line,  moreover,  to  talk  about 
authors  and  books  at  dinner.  But  the  topic 
had  popped  inconsequently  into  my  head, 
and  there  was  certainly  something  about  the 
quiet,  sly-looking  Jane-Austenish  woman  at 
my  left  that  inspired  confidence. 

"I'm  distinctly  curious  about  her,"  I 
added.  "  She's  sprung  up  so  soon,  so  author- 
itatively. And  she's  so  new." 

If  until  now  my  companion  had  only  lis- 
tened more  quietly,  more  slyly,  than  ever, 
her  eyes  at  this  opened  wide,  her  eyebrows 
went  whimsically  high,  and  she  turned  to  me 
with  a  twinkling  smile. 

"New?    You  really  think  so?" 

203 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

She  gave  me  no  time,  either,  to  correct  my 
statement. 

"I  didn't  suppose  any  one  still  thought 
that  —  except  possibly —  Have  you  ever 
read  Hurrell  Oaks?" 

I  nodded  gropingly. 

"Miss  Haviland  was  a  teacher  of  mine  at 
Newfair  when  it  happened.  That  was  eight, 
ten  years  ago.  D'you  see?" 

"I  don't  'see*  anything." 

"  But  you  do  Hurrell  Oaks — you're — you're 
really  all '  for'  him,  I  mean?  So  you'd  adore 
it.  It's  pathetic,  too.  Though  it  is  funny!" 
she  cried,  avid  to  tell  me  more  about  what- 
ever "it"  was. 

But  the  inevitable  shift  in  table  talk  veered 
us  apart  at  that  moment ;  and  it  wasn't  until 
after  the  long  meal  was  over  that  we  could 
come  together  again,  and  choose  a  quiet 
corner  away  from  interruptions. 

"Here  goes,  now,"  she  began,  "if  you're 
ready?" 

Miss  Haviland  must  have  been  about 
thirty  when  I  first  saw  her.  She  was  tall, 
handsome  in  an  angular  way.  Her  face  was 
large,  her  features  regular,  though  somewhat 
heavy,  her  coloring  brilliant,  and  her  dark 

204 


THE  VISIT   OF  THE  MASTER 

hair  grayish  even  then.  She  had  the  kind  of 
stocky  leanness  and  the  ruddiness  that  come 
from  northern  New  England — and  perhaps 
she  did  come  from  New  England;  wanderers 
from  those  climes  can  develop  so  prodigiously, 
you  know — which  only  made  her  pretentious 
garb  and  manner  the  more  conspicuous. 

To  see  her  at  those  college  parties!  She 
wore  black  evening  gowns,  and  a  string — a 
"rope,"  I  think  you  could  call  it — of  imita- 
tion pearls,  and  carried  a  fan  always,  and  a 
loose  wrap  with  some  bright  lining  and  fur 
on  the  neck  and  sleeves,  which  she'd  just 
throw,  as  if  carelessly,  over  her  shoulders. 
We  used  irreverently  to  say  she  had  "cor- 
rupted" (one  of  her  favorite  words)  the 
premise  of  the  old  motto,  "When  you're  in 
Rome"  to  "Whether  or  not  you're  in  Rome," 
so  did  she  insist  on  being — or  trying  to  be — 
incongruously  grande  dame  and  not  "of" 
the  milieu  she  was  privileged  to  adorn. 
Without  ever  letting  herself  mix  with  those 
gatherings  really,  she'd  showed  her  condescen- 
sion by  choosing  a  place  in  the  most  mixing 
group,  and  there  carrying  out  her  aloofness  by 
just  smiling  and  peering  reservedly  at — at 
the  way  a  man  set  a  glass  of  water  upon  the 
table,  for  instance,  as  if  that  constituted 

205 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

enough  to  judge  him  by;  as  if  he'd  laid  his 
soul,  also,  sufficiently  bare  to  her  in  the 
process.  And  she  must  have  been,  as  you've 
seen,  a  resourceful  observer;  she  had  a 
gift  for  reacting  from  people;  though  how 
much  depended  upon  the  people  and  what 
they  did  and  said,  and  how  much  upon  what 
she  unconsciously — or  consciously — adapted 
from  Hurrell  Oaks  while  she  gaged  them, 
is  a  question.  The  result  at  least  fits 
the  needs  of  a  gaping  public.  But  I'm 
drifting. 

All  this — in  fact,  everything  about  her — 
took  George  Norton  by  storm  when  he  turned 
up,  fresh  from  a  fresh-water  university 
farther  west,  to  fill  the  Slocum  professorship. 
He  found  in  her  the  splendor  that  he'd  been 
stranded  away  from  in  "real  life"  and  had 
never  had  time  or  imagination  to  find  in 
books.  She  represented  great,  glorious  things 
beyond  his  ken — civilization,  culture,  so- 
ciety, foreign  lands  across  the  sea  for  which 
his  appetite  had  been  whetted  by  the  holiday 
tour  he  took  to  Bermuda  after  getting  his 
A.B.  with  highest  honors  in  History  and 
Government.  He  was  about  forty  or  so, 
and  lived  alone  with  his  mother. 

Rumor  had  it  (and  it  may  have  been  well 

206 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

founded — it's  so  difficult  to  tell  what  goes  on 
in  the  minds  of  those  small,  meek  men)  that 
he  had  always  wanted  to  discover  an  "  Egeria- 
like  woman,"  and  that,  once  he  stepped  into 
Mrs.  Braxton's  drawing-room  and  saw — 
and  heard — Miss  Haviland  discoursing  on 
"The  Overtones  in  Swinburne's  Prose,"  his 
wildest  hope  was  realized.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
his  recognition  must  have  been  overpowering 
to  have  won  her  attention  so  easily;  for  her 
standards  wouldn't  have  permitted  her,  by 
any  stretch  of  imagination,  to  think  of  him 
as  an  Egeria's  man — however  she  may  have 
felt  she  merited  one. 

But  she  wasn't,  with  her  looks  and  dis- 
tinction and  learning,  the  sort  to  attract  men 
readily.  She  was  too  self-sufficient  and 
flagrant,  to  begin  with.  She  left  no  medium 
of  approach  suggested.  She  offered  no  ten- 
der, winning  moments.  Her  aspect  for  men, 
as  well  as  for  women,  implied  that  she 
thought  she  knew  their  ways  and  their 
methods  better  than  they  did.  ...  It  shows 
as  a  weakness  in  her  stories,  I  think — the 
temerity  with  which  she  assumes  the  mas- 
culine role,  the  possible  hollowness  of  her 
assumptions  not  once  daunting  her.  Re- 
member the  one  that  begins:  "I  had  just 

207 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

peeked  into  the  bar  of  the  Savoy  Hotel"? 
I  could  never,  when  I  read  it,  think  of  any- 
thing except  just  how  Marian  Haviland  her- 
self would  look,  in  a  black  evening  gown  and 
her  other  regalia,  peeking — as  she  no  doubt 
longed  to  do.  She  can  refer  to  "my  top- 
coat," or  "wristbands,"  or  "cravats,"  with- 
out a  qualm.  Such  expressions,  too,  as  her 
egregious  command  of  the  male  code  permits 
her  heroes  to  use:  "Oh,  it's  rum,  it's  only 
rum,  Bertie  kept  repeating,"  or  something 
like  that  —  remember?  But  I'm  drifting 
again.  .  .  .  Her  favor  might  have  fired  the 
heart  of  a  grand  seigneur,  I  don't  know;  to 
the  men  of  Newfair  it  was  too  much  like  a 
corrective.  George  Norton,  I  guess,  was  the 
only  one  who  ever  craved  it.  He  courted 
the  slavedom  of  learning  to  be  her  foremost 
satellite. 

His  courting  went  on  at  all  the  assem- 
blages. The  moment  he  entered  a  room  you 
could  see  her  drawing  him  like  a  magnet ;  and 
him  drawn,  atom-like,  with  his  little  round 
beard  and  swallow-tail  coat  and  parsonish 
white  necktie,  to  wherever  she  ensconced 
herself.  No  sooner  would  he  get  near  than 
she'd  address  a  remark  almost  lavishly  to 
somebody  on  the  other  side,  and  not  deign 

208 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

to  notice  until  the  topic  had  been  well  de- 
veloped ;  and  then  she  would  only  nod  round 
distantly  and  say: 

"Mr.  Norton,  how  are  you  this  evening?" 

But  he  would  bob,  and  smirk  consciously, 
up  and  down  on  his  toes,  and  slap  one  hand 
against  the  other  in  an  appreciative  manner; 
undismayed  if  she  looked  away  to  talk  quite 
exclusively  to  somebody  else  for  another  five 
minutes,  just  perhaps  glancing  fugitively 
over  at  him  again  to  suggest: 

4 'It's  too  bad  you  must  stand,  Mr.  Nor- 
ton." Or,  when  another  pause  came,  "Can't 
you  find  a  chair?" 

But  you  could  see  her  still  holding  him 
fast  while  she  finished  her  own  chat,  and 
before  she  had  leisure  to  release  him  at  last 
.with  some  cue  like — 

"That  chair,  perhaps — no,  there,  Mr. 
Norton." 

Nice  little  man.  He  would  fetch  the  very 
chair.  He  would  even  keep  it  suspended  in 
the  air  until  she  pointed  out  the  exact  spot, 
and,  with  eyes  and  eyebrows  tense,  nodded 
approval  of  her  scheme — asking  him,  how- 
ever, after  he  was  seated,  to  stand  a  moment, 
so  she  could  move  her  own  chair  a  bit  farther 
to  the  right,  away  from  the  person  whose 

209 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

foot  had  been  planted,  as  she  all  the  time 
knew,  upon  a  rung  of  it. 

He  would  yearn  up  to  her  presently  and 
murmur: 

"A  beautiful  room,  don't  you  think,  Miss 
Haviland?" 

At  which  she  would  wince,  and  whisper 
down  in  his  ear,  and  he  wag  his  head  and 
roll  his  eyes  surreptitiously,  sure  of  not  ap- 
pearing to  observe  any  details  she  was  kind 
enough  to  instruct  him  on.  He  would  smile 
gratefully,  proudly,  after  it  was  over,  as  if 
her  words  had  put  them  into  a  state  of 
blissful  communion. 

I  remember  well  the  day  I  met  them  to- 
gether when  she  told  me  Hurrell  Oaks  was 
coming  to  Newfair.  I  can  see  her  now  as 
she  sauntered  across  the  campus,  in  slow, 
longish  strides,  and  the  would-be  graceful 
little  spring  she  gave  when  her  feet  touched 
the  ground,  and  her  head  set  conveniently 
forward  on  her  shoulders.  She  looked  at  me, 
and  then  smiled  as  if  to  let  me  know  that  it 
wasn't  her  fault  if  she  had  to  take  me  all  in 
so  at  a  glance.  .  .  .  Why,  in  a  glance  like  that, 
she'd  stare  you  up  and  down.  If  your  hat 
was  right,  she'd  go  on  toward  your  feet,  and 

if  your    shoe-lacings    were    tied    crisscross 

210 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

instead  of  straight,  it  meant  something 
quite  deplorable.  And  if  she  wasn't  fortu- 
nate enough  to  meet  you  or  anybody  else  on 
the  way,  she  doubtless  scrutinized  the  sky 
and  trees  and  grass  with  the  same  con- 
noisseurship.  I  actually  believe  she  had 
ideas  on  how  birds  ought  to  fly,  and  compared 
the  way  they  flew  at  Ravenna  with  the  way 
they  flew  at  Newfair. 

That  was  autumn  of  my  senior  year.  Her 
first  book  had  been  published  by  then,  and 
acclaimed  by  the  critics.  The  stories,  as 
they  appeared  one  by  one  in  the  magazines, 
had  each  in  turn  thrown  Newfair  into  a  panic 
of  surprise  and  admiration. 

Nobody  ever  knew,  you  see,  until  they 
began,  what  Miss  Haviland  did  during  the 
long  periods  when  she  shut  herself  up  in  that 
little  apartment  of  hers  in  the  New  Gains- 
borough. If,  as  you  say,  she  seemed  to 
burst  so  suddenly,  so  authoritatively,  into 
print  for  you,  think  what  it  must  have  meant 
for  us  to  see  such  dexterity  and  finish  unfurled 
all  at  once  in  the  pages  of  the  Standard. 
Unbeknownst  she  had  been  working  and 
writing  and  waiting  for  years,  with  an  inde- 
fatigable and  indomitable  and  clear-sighted 

vision  of  becoming  an  author.     It  was  her 

211 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

aim,  people  have  told  me,  since,  from  the 
time  she  was  a  girl. 

She  had  been  to  Harvard,  summers,  and 
taken  all  the  courses  which  the  vacation  cur- 
riculum afforded — unnoticed,  unapplauded, 
it  is  said,  by  her  instructors.  She  had 
traveled — not  so  widely,  either,  but  cleverly, 
eclectically,  domineeringly,  with  her  sole  end 
in  view.  After  five  minutes  with  only — say 
— a  time-table,  acquired,  let  us  suppose,  at 
Cook's,  Topica,  she  could  as  showily  allude 
to  any  express  de  luxe  therein  mentioned — 
be  it  for  Tongking  or  Salamanca! — as  if  she 
had  been  the  most  confirmed  passenger  ever 
upon  it.  She  had  mastered  French  and 
Italian.  And  she  had — first  and  last  and 
betweenwhiles — read  Hurrell  Oaks.  I  vent- 
ure to  say  there  wasn't  a  vowel — or  con- 
sonant, for  that  matter — of  the  seventy-odd 
volumes  she  hadn't  persistently,  enamoured- 
ly,  and  enviously  devoured. 

At  Newfair,  people  had  by  this  time,  of 
course,  compared  her  "work"  with  the 
"works"  of  Hurrell  Oaks ;  but  you  know  how 
few  people  have  the  patience  or  taste  to 
"take  him  in."  And  the  result  of  com- 
parisons almost  invariably  was  that  Marian 

Haviland  was  better.     She  had  assimilated 

212 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

some  of  the  psychology,  much  of  the  method, 
and  a  little  of  the  charm;  and  had  crossed  all 
her  t's  and  dotted  her  i's,  and  revised  and 
simplified  the  style,  as  one  person  put  it,  for 
"the  use  of  schools";  and  brought  what 
Hurrell  Oaks  called  "the  base  rattle  of  the 
foreground"  fully  into  play. 

Instead  of  being  accused  of  having  got  so 
much  from  him,  she  was  credited,  one 
thought,  with  having  given  him  a  good  deal. 
You  might  have  guessed,  to  hear  people  at 
Newfair  talk,  that  she  was  partly  respon- 
sible for  the  ovations  being  tendered  him 
over  the  country  during  the  season  of  his 
return — the  first  time  in  fifteen  years — to  his 
native  land. 

"Mrs.  ,"  Miss  Haviland  explained, 

mentioning  a  well-known  metropolitan  name, 
"has  written  me"  (of  course  she  would  be  the 
one  literary  fact  at  Newfair  to  write  to  on 
such  matters)  "to  ask  if  we  can  possibly  do 
with  Mr.  Oaks  overnight." 

I  gaped  under  my  handkerchief  at  the 
fluency  of  her  "do." 

"But  I  don't  just  know  how,"  she  went  on, 
"we  could  make  him  comfortable.  Mrs. 
Edgerton  won't  be  well  in  time.  And  he 
mustn't  stay  at  Mrs.  Green's !' J  She  waxed 

213 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

indignant  at  the  very  possibility.  "In  her 
guest-room,  my  dear?  With  those  Honiton 
laces,  .and  that  scorbutic  carpet,  and  the 
whirligig  pattern  on  the  walls — and  the  win- 
dows giving  on  the  parti-colored  slate  roof  of 
the  gymnasium?" 

I  tried,  in  spite  of  myself,  to  think  com- 
mensurately. 

"And  Mrs.  Kneeland's  waitress  wears 
earrings.  .  .  .  No.  Now  I've  been  thinking — 
don't  hurry  along  so,  George.  You  never 
keep  in  line!  It  spoils  the  pleasure  of 
walking  when  one  constantly  outsteps  you 
like  that." 

"Pardon,"  said  George,  and  fell  back. 

Miss  Haviland  winced  and  shifted  her 
maroon  parasol  to  the  shoulder  on  his  side, 
and  smiled  attentively  at  me  to  intellec- 
tualize  the  interval,  and  continued: 

"Now  /,  if  you're  interested  to  hear — " 

I  was  very  interested,  and  told  her  so.  It 
always  piqued  my  curiosity,  moreover,  to 
think  why  Miss  Haviland  picked  me  out — 
young  as  I  was — for  such  confidences.  I 
believe  it  was  mostly  because  I  always  stared 
at  her  so,  which  she  mistook,  character- 
istically, for  sheer  flattery. 

Even  as  she  spoke,  I  was  remarking  to 

214 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE   MASTER 

myself  the  frilled  languor  of  her  dress,  and 
her  firm  rather  large-boned  throat,  and  the 
moisture — for  it  was  hot — under  the  imita- 
tion pearls,  and  the  competent  grip  of  her 
hand  on  the  long  onyx  handle  of  her  parasol. 

She  stopped  short  of  a  sudden.  George 
took  a  few  steps  ahead.  She  lifted  her  para- 
sol over  to  the  other  shoulder  and  looked  at 
him,  and  he  fell  into  line  again,  a  sensitive, 
pleased,  proud  smile  showing  above  his  little 
round  beard. 

"Now  /  think  it  would  be  better — simpler, 
more  dignified,  and  less  ghastly  for  him — 
if  he  came,  say,  to  luncheon,  and  if  we  ar- 
ranged for  a  small,  a  very  small  group  of  the 
people  he'd  care  most  to  see — he  doesn't, 
poor  fellow,  want  to  see  many  of  us ! — a  small 
group,  I  say,  to  come — George!  Please!  It 
makes  me  nervous,  it  interrupts  me,  and 
it  is  very  bad  for  the  path.  .  .  .  Cover  it 
up  now  with  your  foot.  No — here — let  me 
do  it." 

"Pardon,"  said  George,  cheerfully. 

Miss  Haviland  winced  again. 

"I  don't  know  about  trains,"  she  went 
on.  "But  we  can  look  one  out  for  him"  (she 
facilely  avoided  the  American  idiom)  "and 
then  motor  him  over  to  town  in — in  Mrs. 

15  215 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Edgerton's  car.  Don't  you  think  that  will 
be  more  comme  il  faut?" 

"He'll  be  so  pleased,  he'll  enjoy  so  much 
meeting  her!"  exclaimed  George  to  me, 
rising  on  his  toes  repeatedly  and  rubbing  his 
small  dry  hands  together.  "Won't  he?" 

Miss  Haviland  turned  to  him  severely,  and 
at  a  signal  he  drew  his  arm  up  and  she  slipped 
hers  through  it. 

"To  worry  now  is  a  bit  prem-ature,  per- 
haps," she  called  back.  "We're  off  to  see 
the  new  Discobolus.  I  fear  it's  modeled  on 
a  late  Roman  copy." 

And  I  saw  her,  when  I  glanced  over  my 
shoulder  a  second  later,  pause  again  and 
withdraw  her  arm  to  point  vituperatively  to 
the  Memorial  Library. 

"What  will  he  think  of  a  disgrace  like 
that,  George?"  I  heard  her  imprecating. 
"What?  You  don't  see— that  the  archi- 
tect's left  off  a  row  of  leaves  from  the  cap- 
itals? Come  on." 

Hurrell  Oaks  may  have  been  over-fastidi- 
ous. Yes.  But  his  discernments  were  the 
needs  of  a  glowing  temperament ;  they  grew 
naturally  out  of  ideals  his  incomparable 
sensitiveness  created.  Whereas  hers — Mar- 
ian Haviland's — though  derived  from  him, 

216 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE   MASTER 

had  all  the — what  shall  I  say? — snobbish' 
ness,  which  his  lacked  utterly.  I  can't 
estimate  that  side  of  her,  even  now,  not  in 
view  of  all  her  accomplishments,  even,  except 
as  being  a  little  bit  cheap. 

I  didn't,  of  course,  though,  gather  at  her 
first  mention  of  his  coming  half  that  it 
meant  to  her.  And  she  wouldn't,  I  might 
have  known,  with  her  regard  for  the  nu- 
ances, have  let  it  baldly  appear.  But  I 
discovered  afterward  that  she  had  made  all 
sorts  of  overtures — done  her  utmost  to  divert 
him  to  Newfair.  She  didn't  know  him;  had 
never  set  eyes  on  him.  But  her  reputation, 
which  was  considerable  even  then,  helped 
her  a  good  deal.  For  she  solicited  news  of 
him  from  her  publishers;  and  she  wrote 

Mrs.  ,  whatever  her  name  was,  finally, 

when  she  learned  that  that  was  the  real 
right  source  to  appeal  to,  a  no  doubt  hand- 
some letter,  whence  came  the  reply  Miss 
Haviland  had  quoted  to  me — but  which,  as 
I  also  afterward  found  out,  only  asked  very 
simply  "in  view  of  the  uncertainty  of  Mr. 
Oaks's  plans,"  whether  or  not  he  could,  in 
case  he  had  to,  "spend  the  night  there." 

Well,  it  eventuated,  not  strictly  in  accord 
with  her  wire-pulling,  that  Hurrell  Oaks's 

217 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

route  was  changed  so  he  could  "run  through" 
in  the  late  afternoon  "for  a  look  at  the  col- 
lege." He  was  to  be  motoring  to  a  place 
somewhere  near,  as  it  happened,  and  the 
Newfair  detour  would  lengthen  his  schedule 
by  only  an  hour  or  two.  Word  of  it  didn't 
come  to  her  directly,  either;  that  letter  was 
addressed  to  the  president.  But  it  was 
humbly  referred  to  Miss  Haviland  in  the 
course  of  things,  and  she  took  the  matter — 
what  was  left  of  it — into  her  own  hands. 

"No,"  she  answered,  unyielding  to  the 
various  suggestions  that  cropped  up  ...  "it 
can't  be  in  any  of  the  buildings.  It  would 
at  once  seem  like  a  public  affair  to  show  him 

off.  He'd  detest  it But  I'll  tell  you  what 

I  am  willing  to  do — I  will  give  up  my  own 
little  flat!  Living  in  London  as  he  does,  he 
will  feel — quite  at  home  there." 

Funny  though  it  is,  looking  back  over  it, 
it  had  also,  when  all  was  said  and  done — 
particularly  when  all  was  done — its  pathetic 
side.  For  Hurrell  Oaks  was  the  one  sincere 
passion  of  her  life.  He  was  religion  and — 
and  everything  to  her.  The  prospect  of 
seeing  him  in  the  flesh,  of  hearing  him  viva 
voce,  was  more  than  she  had  ever  piously 
believed  could  come  to  pass. 

218 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE   MASTER 

However  much  she  imitated  him — and 
remember  a  large  following  bears  witness  to 
her  skill — however  she  failed  in  his  beauty 
and  poetry  and  thoroughbredness,  she  must 
have  had  a  deep,  a  discriminating  love  of  his 
genius  to  have  taken  her  thus  far.  No 
wonder  she  couldn't,  with  her  precise  sense 
of  justice,  not  be  the  chosen  person  at  New- 
fair  to  receive  him!  .  .  .  But  nobody  dared 
question  the  justice  of  it  really.  Wasn't 
she  the  raison  d'etre  of  his  coming? — 
of  his  being  anywhere  at  all,  as  some  people 
thought ! 

Her  very  demeanor  was  mellowed  by  the 
prospect.  She  set  about  the  task  of  prepara- 
tion with  an  ardor  as  unprofessed  as  it  was 
apparent.  She  doffed  the  need  of  impressing 
any  one  in  her  zeal  to  get  ready  to  impress 
Hurrell  Oaks. 

Her  tone  became  warm  and  affluent  as  she 
went  about  asking  this  person  and  that  to 
lend  things  for  the  great  day:  Mrs.  Edger- 
ton's  "Monet,"  Mrs.  Braxton's  brocades — a 
fur  rug  of  Mrs.  Green's  she  solicited  one  noon 
on  the  campus  as  if  from  a  generous  impulse 
to  slight  no  one.  And  even  when  Mrs. 
Green  suggested  timidly  that  she  would  be 
glad  "to  pay  for  having  the  invitations 

219 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

engraved,"  Miss  Haviland  didn't  correct 
her.  But— 

"No,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  think  I  won't 
let  you  do  that  much — really.  There  aren't 
to  be  so  many,  and  I  shall  be  able  to  write 
them  myself  in  no  time." 

I  can  see  her,  now,  fingering  her  pearls, 
and  peering  as  hospitably  as  she  could  man- 
age into  Mrs.  Green's  commonplace  eyes — 
and  George  Norton  hurrying  across  the  grass 
to  catch  a  word  with  her,  without  avail.  He 
was  the  only  person  whom  she  was,  dur- 
ing those  perfervid  preliminaries,  one  bit 
cruel  to. 

But  him  she  overlooked  entirely.  She 
didn't  seem  to  see  him  that  day  at  all.  She 
just  peered  obliquely  beyond  him,  and, 
engrossed  quite  genuinely,  no  doubt,  in  Mrs. 
Green's  fur  rug,  took  her  arm  and  strolled  off. 
She  had  lost,  for  the  time  being,  all  use  for 
him.  He  was  left  deserted  and  alone  at  the 
teas  and  gatherings,  magnetized  from  one 
spot  to  another  whither  she  moved  forgetfully 
away. 

I  met  him  in  the  park  and  pitied  his  shy, 
inept  effort  not  to  appear  neglected. 

"Well,  I  kind  of  think  it  may  rain,"  he 

essayed,  half  clasping  his  small  hands  behind 

220 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

him  and  looking  sociably  up  around  the  sky 
for  a  cloud.  "But  I  don't  know  as  it  will, 
after  all."  And  then,  "Have  you  seen  Miss 
Haviland  lately?"  he  asked  out,  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"Not  since  yesterday's  class." 

"How's  the  improvements  coming?" 

"All  right,  I  guess.  The  new  stuff  for  the 
walls  has  arrived,  I  heard.  It  hasn't  been 
put  on  yet." 

"  Oh — she's  papering,  is  she?" 

"And  painting." 

He  tried  to  sparkle  appreciatively.  "  Well, 
it  takes  time  to  do  those  things.  You  never 
know  what  you're  in  for.  She's  well?" 

And  he  swayed  back  and  forth  on  his 
heels,  and  teetered  his  head  nervously.  Poor 
thing!  The  gap  he  had  tried  so  hard  to 
bridge  had  been  filled  to  brimming  now  by 
the  promised  advent  of  Hurrell  Oaks. 

Miss  Haviland  called  me  on  the  telephone, 
one  afternoon,  as  the  day  was  approaching, 
to  ask  if  I  would  lend  her  my  samovar ;  and 
she  wanted  me  to  bring  it  over  presently, 
if  possible,  as  she  was  slowly  getting  things 
right,  and  didn't  like  to  leave  any  more  than 
was  necessary  to  the  last  moment.  So  I 

polished  the  copper  up  as  best  I  could,  and 

221 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

went  round  that  evening  to  the  New  Gains- 
borough to  leave  it. 

The  building  looked  very  dismal  to  me,  I 
recall.  A  forlorn  place,  it  seemed,  to  receive 
the  great  guest.  It  had  been  a  dormitory 
once,  which  had  been  given  over,  owing  to 
the  inconvenience  of  the  location,  to  accom- 
modate unmarried  teachers.  It  was  more 
like  a  refined  factory  than  an  apartment- 
house.  The  high  stoop  had  no  railing,  and 
the  pebbles  which  collected  on  the  coarse 
granite  steps  added  to  the  general  bleakness 
of  the  entrance.  The  inner  halls  were  grim, 
with  plain  match-board  wainscots  and  dingy 
paint,  and  narrow  staircases  that  ascended 
steeply  from  meager  landings.  Miss  Havi- 
land's  suite  was  three  flights  up. 

But  when  I  got  inside  it  I  couldn't  believe 
my  eyes. 

Her  door  was  slightly  ajar — it  was  the 
way  Miss  Haviland  avoided  the  bother  and 
the  squalor  of  having  to  let  people  in — 
and  at  my  knock  she  called  out,  in  a 
restrained,  serene  tone,  "Come!"  And  I 
stepped  through  the  tiny  vestibule  into  the 
study. 

It  was  amazingly  attractive — Hurrell  Oaks 

himself  would  have  remarked  it,  I'll  wager. 

222 


Nobody  except  Marian  Haviland  could  have 
wrought  such  a  change. 

Of  course  there  were  Mrs.  Edgerton's 
"Monet,"  and  Mrs.  Braxton's  brocades, 
and — yes — Mrs.  Green's  fur  rug,  say  noth- 
ing of  numberless  other  borrowed  objets,  to 
help  out  the  lavishness  of  the  effect;  but 
the  synthesis  was  magnificent.  Everything 
looked  as  if  it  had  grown  there.  One  might 
have  been  in  an  Italian  palace.  And  Miss 
Haviland,  seated  at  her  new  antique  walnut 
desk,  with  the  ormolu  mounts,  looked  veri- 
tably like  a  chatelaine.  She  had  always,  too 
— I  ought  to  have  seen  it  before — a  little  re- 
sembled a  chatelaine — a  chatelaine  with- 
out a  castle ! 

But  she  had  for  the  moment  her  castle 
now — enough  of  it  to  complete  the  picture, 
at  any  rate.  There  was  a  low,  smoldering 
fire  on  the  hearth,  and  the  breeze  that  played 
through  the  open  windows  just  swayed  the 
heavy  damask  hangings  rhythmically.  My 
samovar,  as  I  set  it  down  on  a  carved  console 
near  the  door,  looked  too  crude  and  crass  to 
warrant  the  excuse  of  my  coming. 

She  read  my  dazed  approval  in  a  glance 
and  laid  down  her  pen,  and,  with  one  experi- 
enced coup  d'ceil  over  the  manuscript  be- 

223 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

fore  her,  leaned  back,  clasping  the  edge  of 
her  desk  with  both  hands  and  staring  at  me. 
She  was  wearing  one  of  those  black  evening 
gowns,  and  a  feather  fan  was  in  easy  reach 
of  where  she  sat;  and  I  noticed  all  at  once 
that  the  string  of  pearls  was  dangling  from 
the  gas-jet  above  her  head. 

"The  new  fixtures — the  electric  ones — 
will  be  bronze,"  she  hastened  to  say. 

I  shall  never  forget,  not  to  my  dying  day, 
the  sight  I  had  of  her  sitting  there;  in  that 
room,  at  that  desk,  in  a  black  evening  gown — 
writing!  And  the  string  of  pearls  she  had 
slung  across  the  condemned  gas-jet  by  way 
of  subtle  disarmament  for  her  task!  The 
whole  place  had  the  hushed,  grand  air  of 
having  been  cleared  for  action  by  some 
sophisticated  gesture;  as  if — the  thought 
whimsically  struck  me — she  might  have  just 
rung  for  the  "second  man"  and  bidden  him 
remove  "all  the  Pomeranians"  lest  they 
distract  her. 

"It's  too  lovely,  Miss  Haviland;  I  can't 
tell  you  what  I  think  it  is,"  I  exclaimed, 
blankly. 

She  stood  up,   reached  for  the  rope  of 
pearls,  and  slipped  them  over  her  head. 
!I  want  you  to  see  the  hall,"  she  said. 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

"  Isn't  it  chic?  .  .  .  And  the  bedrooms.  The 
men  will  leave  their  hats  in  the  south  chamber 
— mine — in  here;  and  the  women  will  have 
the  other — this  one." 

She  preceded  me.  She  was  quite  simple 
in  her  eagerness  to  point  out  everything  she 
had  done.  Her  childlike  glee  in  it  touched 
me.  And  she  looked  so  tired.  She  looked, 
in  spite  of  her  pomp  and  enthusiasm, 
exhausted. 

"How  he — how  Mr.  Hurrell  Oaks  will  love 
it!"  I  cried,  sincerely.  " If  he  only  realized, 
if  he  only  could  know  the  pains  you've  taken 
for  him." 

"Pains?" 

She  leaned  forward  and  let  me  judge  for 
myself  how  she  felt.  Her  eyes  glowed.  I 
had  never  seen  her  with  all  the  barriers  down. 

"  It  isn't  a  crumb  of  what's  due  him,"  she 
pleaded.  "Do  you  think  I  expect  he'll  love 
it?  No.  It's  only  the  best  I  could  do — the 
best  I  can  do — to  save  him  the  shock  of 
finding  it  all  awful.  Oh,  I  didn't, — I  so  don't 
want  him  to  think  we  are — barbarians!" 

She  gave  it  out  to  me  from  the  depths  of 
her  heart,  and  I  accepted  it  completely,  with 
no  reservations  or  comments.  He  was  the 
one  real  passion  of  her  life,  as  I've  said.  She 

225 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

was  laying  bare  to  me  the  utmost  she  had 
done  and  longed  to  do  for  Hurrell  Oaks. 

"To  think  that  he  is  coming  here!"  she 
murmured.  "I've  waited  and  hoped  so  to 
see  him — only  to  see  him — it's  about  the 
most  I've  ever  wanted.  And  it's  going  to 
happen,  dear,  in  my  own  little  rooms.  He 
is  coming  to  me!  Oh,  you  can't  know  what 
he's  meant  to  me  in  all  the  years — how  I've 
studied  and  striven  to  learn  to  be  worthy  of 
him!  All — the  little  all  I've  got — I  owe  to 
him — everything!  He's  done  more  than 
anybody,  alive  or  dead,  to  teach  me  to  be 
interested  in  life — to  make  me  happy." 

She  threw  her  long  arms  around  my 
shoulders,  and  pressed  me  to  her,  and  kissed 
me  on  the  forehead.  The  chapel  clock 
struck  ten. 

"You'll  come,  too,  won't  you?"  she  asked, 
stepping  back  away  from  me  in  sudden 
cheerfulness.  "For  I  want  you  to — to  see 
how  wonderful  he  will  be." 

She  put  her  arms  about  me  once  more,  and 
went  with  me  to  the  door  when  I  left.  In 
her  forgetfulness  of  all  forms  and  codes,  she 
had  become  a  perfect  chatelaine.  She  opened 
the  door  for  me  almost  reluctantly,  and 
stepped  out  on  to  the  meager  landing,  and 

226 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

stood  there  waving  her  hand  and  calling  out 
after  me  until  I  had  got  well  down  the 
narrow  staircase. 

The  day  dawned  at  last.  The  hour  had 
been  set  at  five  o'clock,  as  Miss  Haviland's 
Shakespeare  course  wasn't  over  until  three- 
thirty,  and  the  faculty  hadn't  seen  fit,  after 
"mature  consideration,"  to  give  her  pupils 
a  holiday.  But  the  elect  of  Newfair  were 
talking  about  the  event,  and  discussing  what 
to  wear,  and  whether  they  ought  to  arrive 
on  the  dot  of  five  or  a  few  minutes  after,  or 
if  they  wouldn't  be  surer  of  seeing  him  "at 
his  best"  by  coming  a  few  minutes  before. 

I  met  Professor  Norton  again  in  the  park 
that  morning. 

"All  ready  for  this  afternoon?"  I  asked  him. 

His  lips  went  tight  together,  and  quivered 
in  and  out  over  his  small  round  beard  as  he 
tried  to  face  me.  And  then  he  looked  down 
away,  and  began  digging  another  hole  in  the 
gravel  walk  with  the  broad  toe  of  his  congress 
boot.  He  shot  a  glance  at  me,  in  a  moment, 
and  gazed  off  at  the  falling  leaves. 

"Aren't  you  interested  in  Hurrell  Oaks?"  I 
persisted. 

"I'm  interested  in  everything  Marian 
Haviland  likes,"  he  declared,  boldly,  focusing 

227 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

his  eyes  full  upon  mine.  "But — but  the 
apartment's  small,  and — and  I  reckon  there 
wasn't  room." 

Room?  Was  any  place  too  small  for 
him?  It  made  my  blood — even  at  that  age — 
boil. 

"She's  had  enough  to  do  to  keep  half  a 
dozen  busy,"  I  said,  tactlessly. 

"Has  she?"  he  echoed,  in  hope.  "How — 
how's  she  got  on?" 

"She's  been  wonderful,"  I  said,  feeling 
kindlier  toward  her  as  I  spoke.  "  She's  made 
that  apartment  regal." 

"I'm  glad,  I'm  glad!  I  knew  she  had  it 
in  her.  Did  the  new  sofa  come?" 

"Yes.  Everything's  come.  And  you'd 
better  come  yourself  at  five  o'clock.  Un- 
doubtedly she's  just  forgotten — perhaps  your 
invitation  got  lost,  like  Mrs.  Purcell's.  She 
only  got  hers  an  hour  ago,  I  heard." 

" Really,  now!  Well,  I'll  just  go  home  and 
see.  I  need  a  little  nap,  I  guess.  I  haven't 
been  sleeping  very  well.  Good-by." 

And  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  nodded  to 
me  several  times,  and  gave  me  a  sad,  cheery, 
uncertain  smile. 

It  was  too  bad.  I  was  sure  Miss  Haviland 
had  forgotten  him.  I  didn't  think — and  I 

228 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

don't  think  now — that  she  wilfully  omitted 
to  send  him  an  invitation.  It  was  only  that 
her  cup  was  too  full  to  remember  his  small, 
meek  existence.  I  wondered  if  I  dared  re- 
mind her. 

I  was  pretty  busy  all  day,  however.  And 
I  had  to  get  dressed  and  out  by  four,  as  I 
hadn't  posted  my  daily  theme  yet,  and  the 
time  would  be  up  at  half  past.  But  I 
thought,  even  so  late  as  then,  that  I'd  better 
go  by  way  of  the  New  Gainsborough,  and,  if 
things  seemed  propitious,  drop  a  hint  to  her. 
For  I  felt  free  to  say  almost  anything  after 
my  experience  of  the  other  evening. 

Things  weren't  propitious,  though,  I  can 
tell  you. 

I  was  still  some  distance  from  the  building 
— it  was  about  fifteen  minutes'  walk,  I 
should  say — when  I  heard  somebody  calling 
to  me  in  a  distressed  voice.  I  looked  round 
behind  me,  and  to  the  right  and  left;  and 
when  finally  I  walked  ahead  I  saw  Miss 
Haviland  fly  out  through  the  swinging  door 
of  the  New  Gainsborough  and  stand  there 
at  the  top  of  the  high  granite  stoop,  beckon- 
ing frantically.  She  had  on  a  mauve-colored 
kimono,  which  she  was  holding  together 
rather  desperately  in  front,  and  her  hair 

229 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

was  uncaught  behind  and  streaming  in  the 
wind. 

"Edith!  Edith!"  she  called  out.  "Quick!" 

She  had  never  called  me  by  my  first  name 
before.  What  could  it  be? — at  this  late 
hour,  too?  She  waited  a  second  to  be  sure 
I  was  coming,  then  dodged  back  under 
cover. 

I  ran.     I  sprang  up  the  granite  steps. 

"See  if  you  see  anybody!"  she  com- 
manded, breathlessly,  peering  out  at  me. 

"No,  I  don't,"  I  said,  looking.  "There's 
nobody,  Miss  Haviland." 

"But  there  must  be !"  she  insisted.  " Look 
again!  Look  everywhere!" 

I  did  so. 

"There  isn't,  Miss  Haviland,"  I  said 
back  through  the  opening.  "Why  won't 
you  believe  me?" 

"Go  down  again,  do  go  right  down,"  she 
kept  saying,  "and  see!" 

I  shook  my  head.  But  at  that  she  leaped 
out  on  to  the  stoop  and  took  me  by  the 
shoulder  and  pushed  me. 

"Run  out  behind  the  building — oh,  be 
quick!"  she  beseeched.  "Look  all  along  the 
road,  and  if  you  see  anybody,  stop  him,  and 
tell  me!" 

230 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE   MASTER 

I  ran.  The  road  was  empty.  I  came 
dazedly  back. 

'There's  nobody  in  sight,"  I  panted,  "not 
a  soul!" 

"Run  over  to  that  tree  where  you  can  see 
round  the  turn  in  the  avenue!" 

I  ran  again.  I  stretched  my  eyes  in  vain. 
But  there  wasn't  a  person  of  any  sort  or 
description. 

' '  Once  more — please!' '  She  started  down 
the  steps  as  I  started  up.  "Over  by  the 
chapel — you  may  find  somebody  walking. 
Hurry!" 

I  hurried.  I  was  out  of  breath  and  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  doing. 

"They're  all  in  getting  ready,  Miss  Havi- 
land.  How  can  you  expect  me  to  find  any- 
body now?"  I  asked,  pointlessly  and  in  some 
indignation  as  I  reapproached  her. 

But  she  rushed  down  the  steps  and  stopped 
me  half-way,  her  mauve  kimono  fluttering 
open,  and  the  gilt  high-heeled  slippers  she 
had  donned  in  her  haste  gleaming  garishly 
against  the  unswept  stone. 

"Listen!  Harken!"  she  whispered.  "Do 
you  hear  a  motor?  Don' £  you?  Try  again!" 

It  was  still  as  death. 

I  stared  up  at  her  in  terror.     Not  till  then 

16  231 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

did  I  realize  how  serious  it  was.  But  I  had 
never  seen  a  woman  look  like  that.  I  had 
never  seen  the  anguish  of  helplessness  in  the 
hour  of  need  written  so  plain.  Ker  eyes 
seemed  to  open  wider  and  wider — I  had  to 
turn  away — and  awful  lines  came  on  her 
forehead.  She  stretched  out  both  arms  and 
uttered  a  long  "Oh-h!"  that  started  in  her 
throat  and  went  up  into  a  high-pitched  note 
of  pain.  She  was  to  me  positively  like  a 
wild  woman. 

I  watched  her  slowly  raise  one  hand  and 
unclasp  it;  I  saw  within  a  small,  a  very  small 
white  paper  thing,  which  she  held  closer  to 
her  face  and  gaped  at,  as  if  she  couldn't 
believe  the  truth  of  what  she  saw. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter,  Miss 
Haviland?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing,"  she  answered,  quite  calmly. . . . 
"Listen!  Don't  you  hear — " 

But  she  shuddered. 

"They'll  be  coming,  Miss  Haviland. 
Really!  You've  no  time  left." 

"Yes." 

She  tried  to  smile.  It  was  uncanny.  It 
was  hardly  more  than  a  distention  of  her 
pale,  wide  lips — a  relic,  merely,  of  spent  re- 
sourcefulness. Then  the  blankness  went  out 

232 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

of  her  face,  her  expression  collapsed,  and  she 
sobbed  aloud. 

"Miss  Haviland!  Miss  Haviland!  Do  let 
me  help  you,"  I  begged;  and  I  put  my  arm 
through  hers  and  led  her  inside  the  swinging 
door  and  up  the  narrow  stairs.  "Mayn't  I 
do  anything?" 

She  dragged  herself  heavily  on  by  my  side. 
But  her  sobs  ceased  after  the  first  flight.  At 
the  meager  landing  before  her  door  she  broke 
away  and  stood  erect  and  faced  me  and  held 
out  her  hand.  The  abruptness  of  the  change 
in  her  awed  me.  I  watched  her  push  the 
hair  from  over  her  face  and  tilt  her  head 
back  and  shake  it  and  gather  the  folds  of  the 
kimono  nonchalantly  together,  and  resume 
the  old  hard  connoisseurship  I  had  seen  her 
exercise  from  the  beginning.  Her  eyes  di- 
lated tensely,  and  her  eyebrows  went  tensely 
up,  and  she  gave  me  that  envisaging  smile  as 
of  yore. 

"  It  was  nothing,"  she  said,  "  quite  nothing. 
Won't  you  step  in  and  wait?  Or  ...  I'm 
tired,  I  expect.  I  was  alone  here,  do  you 
see,  taking  my  bath.  The  servants"  (Mrs. 
Edgerton's  servants!)  "hadn't  come.  And 
that  knock  on  the  door  upset  me.  I  thought 
— it  might  be — the — the  caterer"  (she  winced 

233 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

at  the  word,  and  the  wince  seemed  to  help 
her  to  proceed)  "with  the  food.  So  I  hurried 
out  and  down  like  mad.  .  .  .  Thanks  awfully, 
though.  You'll  be  back,  surely.  Please  do." 

I  did  go  back,  of  course.  I  wouldn't  have 
missed  it  for  worlds — sad  as  it  was.  There 
wasn't  such  a  long  interval  to  wait,  either. 
I  wended  my  way,  and  found  the  theme-box 
closed,  and  returned  at  about  quarter  past 
five. 

When  I  entered,  the  assemblage  was  in  full 
swing,  and  Marian  Haviland,  in  the  black 
afternoon  toilet  she  had  sent  to  New  York 
for  in  honor  of  Hurrell  Oaks's  visit,  was 
scintillating  in  the  midst.  She  had  donned 
her  pearls,  and  subdued  her  cheeks  becom- 
ingly, and  tinted  her  lips;  and,  going  from 
one  person  to  another,  she  would,  in  response 
to  the  undiscriminating  compliments  they 
bestowed,  just  tap  them  each  gaily  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  fan  and  explain  that: 

"Mr.  Oaks  was  so  sorry,  but  he  couldn't 
wait.  Yes,  he  was  wonderful,"  she  would 
say,  "perfectly.  We  had  an  immemorial 
hour  together.  I  shall  never  forget  it — 
never/' 

To  this  day  I  don't  blame  her  for  lying. 
If  she  hadn't  lied  she  never  could  have  stood 

234 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  MASTER 

it.  And  she  had  to  stand  it.  What  else 
could  she  do?  She  couldn't  hang  a  sign  on 
the  door  and  turn  the  guests  away  after  all 
their  generous  sacrifices  to  the  occasion. 

George  Norton,  needless  to  say,  wasn't 
there.  She  had  forgotten — I  insist  upon 
that  much — to  ask  him.  But  two  days 
later  she  announced  her  engagement  to 
marry  him,  and,  in  another  month's  time, 
the  knot  was  actually  tied. 

My  companion  stopped  short  there,  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  expectantly  staring 
at  me. 

"Like  Marian  Haviland  Norton's  readers," 
I  said,  "  I  should  like  some  of  the  t's  crossed 
and  the  i's  dotted  a  little  more  plainly. 
Don't  spare  me,  either,  as  far  as  the  'base 
rattle  of  the  foreground'  is  concerned.  But 
tell  me,  please,  literally,  just  what  you  think 
happened." 

She  showed  her  disappointment  at  that; 
looked  almost  aggrieved.  Then  she  laughed 
out  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Hurrell  Oaks  didn't  expect  a  party,"  she 
declared,  "he  didn't,  at  all  events,  mean  to 
have  one.  He  didn't — she  was  right  about 
that — 'want  to  see  many  of  us.'  He  didn't 

235 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

want  to  see  anybody.  He  just  wanted  to  do 
his  manners.  He  couldn't  decently  get  out 
of  that  much.  And,  although  he  may  have 
been  asked  to  come  at  exactly  five — nobody, 
of  course,  knows  how  his  invitation  was 
worded — he  reached  Newfair  earlier,  perhaps 
unintentionally  so,  and  came  instead  at  four, 
and  knocked  politely  for  admittance.  But 
Mrs.  Edgerton's  servants,  unfortunately, 
hadn't  arrived,  and  Miss  Haviland  was,  as 
she  herself  admitted,  taking  a  bath.  She  was 
no  doubt  actually  in  the  tub  when  Hurrell 
Oaks  slipped  his  card  under  the  door." 


VII 

THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

RRESTED  development,'  or  what- 
ever  your  psychopathists  would  call 
it,  be  damned — they  only  go  at  the  poetry  of 
life,  sometimes,"  Dyer  let  slip,  rubbing  the 
end  of  his  cigarette  against  an  ash-tray 
nervously. 

I  had  just  come  in.  I  didn't  know  what 
they  were  talking  about.  But  I  knew  Dyer 
well  enough  to  know  he  seldom  let  slip  any- 
thing, and  that  the  moment  was  rather 
significant. 

"  I  had  an  interesting  experience  once,  not 
exactly  apropos,  but  I  should  like  to  tell  it," 
he  added,  as  if  with  a  dogged  determination 
to  seem  at  ease. 

Dyer's  inner  life  baffled  everybody.  There 
were  people  who  thought  him  unfeeling, 
hard.  I've  heard  women  say  that  he  was 
perfectly  heartless;  others  that  he  was  like 

237 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

one  who  had  given  his  heart  away  in  vain. 
He  was  brilliant  and  witty,  very  companion- 
able at  times  in  an  aloof,  impersonal  way. 
He  was —  But  I  won't  go  into  that.  Dyer 
baffled  me  most  of  all.  I  only  intend — and 
perhaps  it's  the  best  I  could  do,  were  I 
describing  him  —  to  tell  his  "  interesting 
experience"  as  he  told  it. 

Not,  of  course,  as  he  told  it,  either; 
though  I  shall  try.  A  good  many  of  his  own 
words  I  remember.  But  if  I  seem  to  adopt 
his  style,  don't  think  I'm  not  conscious  of 
discrepancies  in  the  makeshift  medium. 

I  was  in  London  one  spring,  he  began, 
on  business,  and  a  friend  of  mine  used  to  take 
me,  week-ends,  out  to  the  Stoke  Poges  Golf 
Club.  Not  because  I  played  golf — I  never 
did ;  I  went  to  escape  those  lonely  Sundays  in 
town.  And  I  had  many  good  times  by  my- 
self, prying  about  the  parklike  country-side. 

Stoke  Poges  is  in  Buckinghamshire,  you 
know,  near  Slough.  The  club  building  itself 
was  once  the  expatriated  residence  of  some 
Californian  or  other  who  had  got  rich  on 
"  parlor"  matches,  and  the  grounds  com- 
prise the  old  estate  of  the  William  Penn 
family,  and  just  outside  the  wall  is  the 

238 


THE   LITTLE   FAMILY 

Gray's  Elegy  church  and  the  yew-tree;  all 
of  which  details  give  for  some  reason  a  cosmic 
verity — I  don't  mean  cosmopolitan — to  my 
memories. 

One  gray,  misty  Sunday,  the  sort  English- 
men admit  is  "a  bit  dull,"  I  left  my  com- 
panions at  the  first  tee,  and  strolled  down  the 
long  avenue  to  the  street,  thinking  vaguely 
I  could  turn  into  the  graveyard  if  it  rained, 
and  get  shelter  under  the  porch  of  the  chapel. 
It's  a  mile  or  more  to  it  by  road,  though ;  the 
wide,  dark  thoroughfare  winds  deceivingly 
far  between  those  giant  elms  (they  always 
reminded  me  of  etchings,  or  lithographs — 
which  is  it?)  from  whose  lofty  umbrage,  that 
morning,  the  condensed  atmosphere  dripped 
down  to  the  dank  earth.  The  solemn  luxuri- 
ance of  it  hypnotized  me  onward. 

Suddenly  huge  drops  began  to  fall.  An 
explosion  of  wind  swooped  from  the  tree-tops. 
I  looked  and  saw  I  was  in  for  it.  I  wasn't 
half-way  to  the  churchyard,  either.  I  reck- 
oned for  an  instant  on  turning  back;  but  the 
storm  overtook  me. 

Ahead,  on  my  left,  was  a  small  gate,  nearly 
hidden  in  leaves,  toward  which  I  made.  It 
was  narrow.  I  pushed  through  its  little 
stile,  on  to  a  flagged  path  so  crowded  between 

239 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

rose-hedges  that  wet  petals  brushed  down 
everywhere  as  I  went.  Oh,  it  was  pretty! 
I  had  time  to  realize  that  as  I  ran  on  and 
caught  my  first  startled  view  of  the  dear 
house. 

Heaven  knows  I  didn't  stop  to  think. 
But  I  saw  it,  even  then,  plainly  enough.  It 
was  a  story  and  a  half  high,  built  of  small 
diamond-shaped  blocks  of  stone,  with  case- 
ment windows,  and  vines  all  over,  and  blos- 
soms— blossoms — blissfully  protecting  it. 

As  I  slowed  up  past  the  corner  toward  the 
door,  the  windows  I  passed  were  being  closed 
against  the  rain,  and  a  man's  voice  was 
calling  tenderly  from  within : 

"Hurry,  now!     Quick — be  quick!" 

It  made  me  pause.  To  whom,  to  what, 
was  the  voice  calling?  I  had  never  known 
anything  called  to  like  that. 

"You'll  get  wet,  Squirrel!"  I  heard  at  the 
next  window.  "You — Lion!"  at  the  next. 
.  .  .  "Walrus!  Silver  Cattie!  Why!  there's 
Elephant!" 

It  was  the  sort  of  appeal — how  shall  I  de- 
scribe it? — that  ought  to  have  been  followed 
by  glad  scampering  of  feet,  and  little  smoth- 
ered screams,  and  whimpering  sounds.  But 
I  didn't  have  time  to  wait;  the  last  window 

240 


THE  LITTLE   FAMILY 

was  slammed  to  just  as  a  wild  crack  of 
lightning  rent  the  sky. 

I  was  before  the  door  in  another  moment, 
through  the  narrow  opening  of  which,  reluc- 
tantly diminished,  the  same  voice  was  calling : 

"Here,  White  Rabbit!  Come,  Pea- 
cock! . . ." 

"Let  me  in,  please!"  I  cried  to  the  voice. 
And  the  door  opened  wide  upon  me. 

A  tall  man,  with  a  long,  handsomely 
chiseled  face  and  white  hair,  and  nicely 
dressed,  holding  a  painting-palette  daubed 
with  oils  in  his  left  hand,  nodded  gravely 
and  smiled  an  embarrassed  welcome.  He 
was  very  dignified  and  impressive. 

"By  all  means.  Do  come  in.  Of  course." 
he  answered,  matter-of-factly. 

The  quaint  room  I  stepped  into  was  largish 
and  low — there  was  no  hall.  I  hardly  had 
entered  when  another  man,  a  somewhat 
younger  fellow,  came  through  an  inner  door 
at  the  opposite  end,  and,  before  he  noticed 
me  there,  exclaimed: 

"Are—?" 

He  checked  himself  when  he  saw  me, 
looked,  took  a  moment  to  size  up  the  situa- 
tion, and  came  forward  with  some  appropriate 
greeting;  after  which  he  faced  the  older  man 

241 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

again  and,  as  if  to  cover  his  traces,  finished 
his  question: 

"Are  They  all  inside?"  he  asked,  with  a 
sensitive  smile  quite  in  contrast  to  his  hardy 
appearance. 

He  was  strong,  muscular-looking,  well  set- 
up, ruddy.  He  might  have  come  straight,  I 
thought,  across  the  links  from  the  club  I  had 
left. 

"All  safe  and  sound,"  answered  the  older 
man,  also  with  a  strange  smile,  the  firmness 
of  his  tone  rather  forced,  it  seemed  to  me. 

I  was  too  variously  impressed  to  try  yet  to 
fit  things  together  and  wonder  what  it  was 
they  were  talking  about;  even  when,  after 
another  few  minutes,  they  left  me  alone, 
insisting  I  should  have  dry  clothes  on  the 
instant,  despite  my  protestations.  As  I 
looked  about,  my  eyes  fell  amusedly  upon  a 
large,  pink-china  mouse  sitting  on  its  hind 
legs  on  a  table-desk  near  where  the  chair 
stood,  one  paw  pathetically  raised  before  its 
breast,  and  its  exaggerated  tail  circling  its 
feet. 

The  room  was  charmingly  homelike  and 
personal.  A  woolen  carpet,  with  light  back- 
ground and  geometrical  designs;  one  rug, 
with  a  zebra  pattern,  on  the  floor.  Chairs 

242 


THE  LITTLE   FAMILY 

that  waited  blandly  and  colluded  with  the 
genial  calm.  Books.  Portraits — all  of  young 
girls;  I  couldn't  quite  decide  whether  their 
look  was  Renaissance  or  just  Victorian.  But 
talent,  of  rather  a  doubtful  sort,  showed 
through  the  romantic  imperfections.  That 
face,  there — that  face?  Why,  they  were 
nearly  the  same,  weren't  they?  No,  there 
were  two — one  girl  light,  the  other  dark; 
one  with  golden  hair,  the  other's  dark  brown. 
It  was  only  the  expressions  of  both  that 
showed  in  the  various  renderings  so  alike — as 
though  something  similar  in  their  lives  might 
have  fashioned  the  sharp  resemblance.  And 
each  painting  of  each  had  the  same  haunting 
air  of  sadness  cheerfully  remembered.  There 
were  several  such  portraits,  large  and  small; 
and  one  Watteau-like  picture  of  a  lady  and 
gentleman  on  a  marble  seat,  with  a  spaniel 
playing  in  the  foreground. 

I  had  the  strangest  feeling  of  having  been 
there  before.  I  knew  that  I  had  not,  of 
course.  But  it  was  all  like  a  fleeting  whiff 
of  something  long  forgotten;  as  in  those 
dreams  children  have  when  they  suddenly 
find  themselves  back  in  a  place  they  have 
dreamed  of  before,  without  being  able  quite 
to  recall  where  it  is,  and  determine  never  to 

243 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

stay  away  from  it  so  long  again.  I  was  think- 
ing of  all  manner  of  old  things.  I  actually 
thought,  for  instance,  of  a  picture  in  a  book 
my  nurse  Sarah  used  to  read  me — a  picture 
of  a  tortoise-shell  cat  stealing  jam  from  the 
pantry  shelf. 

"You  may  be  able  to  wear  these,"  prof- 
fered the  younger  man,  coming  back  into  the 
room  with  an  armful  of  things — shoes,  stock- 
ings, trousers,  coats — and  holding  them  up 
before  me  for  approval ;  "if  you  don't  mind," 
he  added,  consciously. 

The  older  man  followed.  I  pulled  off  my 
coat  and  was  trying  some  of  the  things  on, 
when  suddenly  the  dim  light  in  the  room 
swelled  into  brightness.  In  another  moment 
the  sun  was  all  about  us. 

"I  sha'n't  need  them,  after  all,"  I  ex- 
claimed. "I'll  run  back  to  the  club  and 
change  there." 

They  met  my  refusal  with  polite  regrets, 
but  without  insistence;  they  seemed  almost 
to  welcome  the  prospect  of  disposing  of  me 
on  such  simple  terms — the  older  man  es- 
pecially; for  he,  while  the  younger  man  filled 
the  gap  sociably  enough,  had  walked  over  to 
a  window  and  opened  the  casement,  and 
stood  there  leaning  out  and  gazing  into  the 

244 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

sunlight.  I  couldn't  keep  my  attention 
from  him,  and  noted  the  curious  way  he 
stretched  out  his  hand,  as  if  absent-mindedly, 
uttering  half-plaintive,  half-coaxing  words  to 
himself. 

The  younger  man,  too,  heard  him,  and 
tried  to  cover  it,  I  thought,  for  he  murmured 
something  about  the  room  being  hot,  and  led 
me  over  to  where  the  older  man  stood,  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  I  was  left,  as 
it  happened,  between  them — all  three  of  us 
looking  out  upon  flowery  beds,  across  the 
little  path,  steaming  up  under  the  noonday 
heat,  into  a  thicket  of  verdure  and  blossoms 
beyond. 

All  of  a  sudden  a  white-throated  sparrow 
emitted  its  song  athwart  the  stillness.  First, 
that  low,  up-going  phrase,  then  the  four 
flutelike  notes.  More  than  ever  was  it  to  me 
like  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

I  glanced  to  my  left  appreciatively,  but 
the  older  man's  eyes  were  focused  beyond, 
and,  when  I  turned  the  other  way,  my 
younger  companion  had  to  shift  his  eyes  to 
face  me.  There  was  a  wavering  sweetness,  a 
vanishing  tenderness,  in  his  expression,  which 
I  felt  he  meant  to  hide.  So  I  looked  out 
again  through  the  window. 

245 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

You  could  hear  the  drops  falling  from  the 
leaves.  You  could  almost  hear  the  petals 
that  here  and  there  wafted  themselves  down. 
There  were  tall,  white  lilies,  filled  with  rain, 
that  bent  beneath  their  weight  of  purity,  like 
slender  maidens  surcharged  with  innocence. 
A  wet,  fragrant  smell  rose  up,  mingling  the 
odors  of  growth  and  decay  intoxicatingly. 

Then  from  the  hidden  depths  of  everything 
came  the  wee  sound  of  an  animal  I  didn't 
recognize. 

I  felt  the  two  beside  me  start,  but  some- 
thing held  me  from  turning.  I  kept  my 
eyes  fixed  outside.  I  stared  so  long,  as  it 
seemed,  so  steadfastly,  into  the  stillness  and 
beauty,  that  I  grew  embarrassed.  I  saw  the 
need  of  making  the  next  move;  I  would 
make  some  commonplace  announcement  of 
my  going.  But  words  didn't  come. 

When  at  last  I  spoke  and  backed  away, 
they  followed  me.  Abruptly  then  their  ten- 
sion slackened,  and  they  talked  pleasantly, 
free  of  restraint.  It  was  as  if,  once  my 
speedy  departure  was  assured,  they  were 
ready  to  make  the  most  of  my  visit.  They 
even  touched  on  a  few  topics  of  the  day ;  and 
finally,  by  the  time  I  had  found  my  hat, 
begged  me  to  stay  longer — for  luncheon,  if  I 

246 


THE  LITTLE   FAMILY 

didn't  "mind  pot-luck";  though  I  fancied 
their  glances  met  rather  worriedly  over  the 
invitation. 

I  wanted  to  stay,  too.  I  had  almost  got  to 
the  point  of  broaching  the  subject  of  their 
pets — the  squirrel,  those  cats  and  dogs  with 
such  unusual  names;  the  peacock — if  there 
was  a  peacock  there. . . .  The  atmosphere  was 
too  rarefied  for  anything  so  crass  as  curiosity. 
I  had  hardly  more  than  a  vague  longing, 
really,  to  attune  myself1— about  as  vague  as 
my  consciousness  that  they  didn't  mean  me 
to;  though  they  repeated  their  invitation 
still  more  warmly,  and  would  perhaps  have 
liked  to  have  me  there  with  them  a  little 
longer. 

I  don't  mean  to  say,  either,  that  I  took  it 
all  in  then,  or  was  morbid  enough  to  make 
these  attenuated  observations  all  on  the 
spot.  It  required  perspective  to  crystallize 
the  subtleties.  .  .  .  Why,  one  year,  two  years, 
afterward,  I'd  sit  here  by  myself,  reading, 
and  the  possibility  of  what  might  be  happen- 
ing away  over  there  in  the  dear  house  would 
irrelevantly  recur  to  me,  so  I'd  forget  my 
newspaper  or  book  and  wonder.  .  .  .  What 
might  those  two  men  be  thinking  then?  What 
might  they  be  saying?  Were  they  sad — or 

17  247 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

were  they  really  very  happy?  Was  their 
hobby,  their  "fad"  (for  was  it,  after  all,  any 
more  than  that?)  madder  than — than  lots  of 
others?  People,  particularly  ones  unattached, 
so  to  speak,  people  who  were  stranded  away, 
too,  from  almost  everything  "vital"  in  life, 
had  to  idealize  and  romanticize  the  homely 
facts — had  to  invent  some  magic  for  them, 
just  to  get  along.  .  .  .  But  Fm  drifting. 

They — the  two  men — detained  me  some- 
what urgently  when  I  stepped  out  through 
the  door,  and  while  I  stood  there  on  the  wet, 
still  pathway,  thanking  them  and  saying 
good-by  and  explaining  to  them,  rather  over- 
pointedly,  how  interesting  it  had  been  to  see 
and  talk  to  them,  and  how  much  I  liked  their 
wonderlandish  abode,  and  how  very  much  I 
hoped  to  see  them  again.  I  felt  that  they 
at  least  liked  me — one  can  nearly  always  tell. 

I  thought  I  heard  one  of  .them  calling,  as  I 
walked  away,  and,  thinking  I  heard  another 
sound,  wheeled  about;  but  I  saw  the  door 
was  being  shut,  so  I  only  waited  a  moment, 
listening.  Everything  was  still  as  death.  I 
went  slowly 'forward,  then,  past  the  rest  of 
the  house,  through  the  dripping  rose-hedges 
to  the  gate.  I  didn't  meet  anybody,  or  see 
anything,  on  the  way. 

248 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

When  I  got  back  to  the  club,  and  the  fel- 
lows wanted  to  know  where  I'd  been,  I  told 
them  and  tried  casually  to  arouse  their 
interest;  but  I  soon  saw  I  couldn't  make 
much  point  out  of  it,  and  regretted  having 
gone  into  it  at  all,  especially  as  my  host  began 
to  rag  me  about  "  always  seeing  more  than 
really  existed."  That  didn't  keep  me  from 
going  into  it  myself,  though. 

I  began  to  hunt  round  to  see  what  I  could 
find  out.  During  the  next  few  week-ends  I 
spent  at  Stoke  Poges  (and  I  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity to  accompany  my  golfing  friend 
thither)  I  used  to  roam  back  and  forth  over 
the  road  between  the  club  entrance  and  the 
little  gate,  and  the  little  gate  and  the  bury- 
ing-ground,  in  search  of  whatever  might  turn 
up.  I  actually  waylaid  people  and  asked 
questions. 

Well,  those  two — the  younger  man  and  the 
older  man — I  learned,  had  been  in  the  neigh- 
borhood now  for  about  five  years,  living 
alone  there  with  all  kinds  of  pet  animals  and 
birds  and  things.  The  older  man  wasn't  a 
painterby  profession ;  he  worked  in  a  London 
bank.  And  the  younger  man  was  an  archi- 
tect. But  they  went  back  and  forth  to 

249 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Stoke  Poges  betweenwhiles  most  of  the  time 
— especially  in  summer.  I  can't  quite  com- 
prehend how  the  rest  of  the  facts  got  to  be 
known  so  generally,  either,  for  they — the 
pets,  I  mean — couldn't  have  been  noticed 
much  straying  about  the  place.  It  leaked 
out,  somehow.  After  all,  I  had  noticed  it 
myself,  more  or  less. 

And  people — farmers  and  their  wives,  and 
gardeners  and  their  wives,  and  others — had 
gradually  grown  to  think  the  two  men 
positively  unbalanced  on  account  of  the  way 
they  went  on  about  their  pets.  A  waiter  at 
the  club  assured  me  on  his  "honor"  that  he 
had  been  discharged  "just  for  losing  a  young 
duck,  which  never,  I  give  you  my  word,  sir, 
had  I  seen  about  the  place." 

I  could  quite  understand,  too,  from  some- 
thing I  got  one  day,  at  first  hand. 

For  I  came  upon  the  two  men  once  again, 
but  not  to  talk  to  them.  I  met  them  hurry- 
ing along  together,  so  absorbed  in  themselves 
they  didn't  hear  me  speak,  nor  see  me,  even 
when  I  stopped  and  turned  round  and  walked 
back  after  them  with  the  intention  of  making 
myself  known.  I  followed  them,  instead, 
dazedly  eavesdropping.  .  .  . 

"  Will  there  be  any  one  at  the  gate  to  meet 

250 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

us?"  queried  the  younger  man,  in  a  voice 
half  whimsical,  half  tender. 

"The  smallest  of  Them  all,  at  any  rate," 
said  the  older  man,  adapting  a  similar  tone. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"He  told  me  so." 

"Anybody  else?" 

"We'll  have  to  wait  and  see.  White 
Rabbit,  perhaps.  And  perhaps  Puppy  Dog. 
Maybe—" 

"Will  there  be  presents?" 

"We  can't  tell." 

"They'll  have  ribbons  round  their  necks, 
anyway — They'll  be  so  glad." 

"But — Gray  Pony's  got  a  cold." 

"No,  he  has  not." 

"Yes,  he  has,  too.  Caught  it  from  Roos- 
ter-with-the-black-tail." 

"Then  Brown  Pony  '11  catch  it!" 

"Not  necessarily.  Rooster- with-the-pur- 
ple-tail  hasn't.  They're  together  every  sec- 
ond, you  know."  .  .  . 

"Which  one  of  Them  all  do  we  like  best?" 

"  That's  no  fair.  We  like  Them  each  just 
the  same." 

"How  much?" 

"All." 

I  had  changed  to  tiptoeing,  but  at  this 

251 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

point  held  my  breath  and  stopped  short, 
watching  them  disappear  around  the  next 
turn  of  the  road,  under  those  giant  elm-trees, 
continuing  their  colloquy,  no  doubt,  beyond 
sight  or  hearing.  It  was  more  like  a  ritual, 
an  interchange  of  mystic  confidences  in  code, 
than  rational  talk.  Two  vigorous-looking 
men  like  that!  No  wonder  people  gossiped. 
...  It  was  a  perfectly  extraordinary  case. 

Those  pets,  you  see,  were  regarded  as  the 
darlingest  members  of  the  dear  establish- 
ment. Oh,  They  were  endowed  in  the  minds 
of  Their  possessors  with  extraordinary  tal- 
ents. Their  meals  were  no  less  carefully 
talked  over  than  children's.  Amusements 
and  entertainments — of  what  sorts,  too! — 
were  considered  for  Their  benefit.  Their 
least  salient,  Their  most  fancified,  character- 
istics were  discussed  and  referred  to  with  no 
misgivings.  Their  habits  were  almost  as 
entities  to  be  reckoned  with. 

Robin  liked  cherries,  and  Catbird  had  a 
weakness  for  chocolate  candy,  which  must 
be  humored.  Roosters  were  wayward — they 
often  strayed  to  a  house  a  mile  or  so  off,  to 
swing  in  a  certain  hammock  there  was  there 
(the  older  man  insisted).  "They  took  turns 
pushing  each  other."  .  .  . 

252 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

Squirrel  was  surreptitious.  He  would  ap- 
pear suddenly,  for  instance,  on  the  table 
of  a  restaurant  where  the  two  men  were 
lunching.  "Look!  See!"  the  younger  man 
would  say. — "What?  You?  dear  little  Squir- 
rel!" the  other  would  exclaim  in  feigned  sur- 
prise. "How  do  you  suppose  he  got  here?" 
— "Must  have  hidden  in  my  pocket,  bad 
Squirrel!" — And  later,  when  Squirrel  all 
at  once  was  noticed  to  have  disappeared: 
"Where  is  he?  Where  could  he  have  gone?" 
the  younger  man  would  demand. — "Got 
bored,  probably  —  went  home. ' ' — ' '  Alone? 
But  how  will  he  ever  get  there?" — "Just 
runs  woppeta-woppeta,  over  the  roofs." — 
"You  think  he's  home  by  now?" — "Long 
ago!  He  goes  like  lightning." — "Hope  he'll 
be  all  right." — And  sure  enough,  when  the 
two  men  would  reach  home,  Squirrel  would 
manage  to  appear  there,  sitting  in  his  usual 
place  on  the  mantelpiece. 

And  whenever  the  two  men,  or  either  of 
them,  saw  horses  in  pastures,  standing  to- 
gether with  the  head  of  one  over  another's 
neck,  the  first  thought  was  of  Brown  Pony 
and  Gray  Pony  at  home  "in  the  back  lot," 
standing  thus  as  was  their  wont.  "Playing 
Ponies"  got  to  be  the  family  name  for  it. ... 

253 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Also,  there  was  the  weakest  as  well  as  the 
bravest  of  Them  to  be  reckoned  with.  For 
some  of  Them — Cattie-in-the-pantry,  in  par- 
ticular— were  awful  afraid  of  thunder,  so 
that  always,  when  a  storm  came  up  sud- 
denly, the  men,  alone  or  together,  thought  of 
Them  in  the  dear  house,  and  worried  whim- 
sically, and  longed  to  hasten  home  and  be  of 
comfort. 

Adventures  were  imagined  for  Them  to 
shine  in.  Big  Duck  (the  older  man  would 
vouchsafe  with  a  tender  smile)  had  got  up 
early  one  morning  and  gone  to  London  to 
buy  that  new  chair  in  the  library  for  the 
younger  man's  birthday  present.  Silver  Cat- 
tie  (the  younger  man  professed)  always  had 
furnished  the  cigars  and  cigarettes,  each  time 
they  appeared.  White  Rabbit  was  presumed 
to  have  mowed  the  lawn  if,  at  close  of  day, 
the  two  men  came  home  and  found  it,  fra- 
grant and  sweet,  stretching  in  regular  half- 
golden  rows  in  the  sunset  light.  Peacock 
was  a  masterly  letter-carrier — in  case  letters 
to  be  posted  disappeared  unbeknownst  from 
the  table-desk. 

Friends  and  playmates  were  one  by  one  as- 
cribed to  Them.  Moon,  and  Stars — "  Twink- 
les," They  called  them — got  to  be  Their  pals. 

254 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

Moon,  on  certain  empty  nights,  would  come 
tell  Them  stories — guard  and  sleep  with 
Them;  and  the  Cow-that-jumped-over,  and 
the  Four  Old  Women — especially  the  One 
Who  lived  under  the  Hill,  were  all  constantly 
in  attendance.  Little  Boy  Blue  and  Miss 
Muffitt,  and  the  Mouse  and  The  Clock 
Struck  One,  and  The  Cheshire  Cat,  and 
Jolly-cum-pop,  and  the  Seven  Pigwidgeons — 
all  gradually  got  acquainted.  Others  were 
still  more  arbitrarily  ascribed,  such  as  The 
Pink  Pelican  (which  the  two  men  had  seen 
one  day  on  some  wall-paper  in  an  old  house), 
and  Toy-or-Two-Boy,  and  Baby-in-the-Bath- 
tub,  and  Twelve  O'Clock  and  All-Out-Doors. 
.  .  .  And  eventually  all  these — "All  the 
Friends  of  Little  Animals" — got  to  be  regular 
companions  of  the  two  men. 

Well — while  the  details  (some  of  them 
hypothetical  ones,  you  see)  were  new  and 
fresh  and  undigested,  so  to  speak,  in  my 
mind,  and  while  I  was  still  in  the  stage  of 
throwing  out  inarticulate  hints  here  and 
there  to  this  person  or  that  whom  I  would 
meet,  it  was  flashed  upon  me  without  warning 
one  night  at  a  London  dinner-table  that  the 
woman  sitting  next  me  had  been  an  intimate 

255 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

of  a  girl  whom  the  younger  man  was  once 
engaged  to  marry. 

She  took  the  offensive  immediately — gave 
me  no  time. 

It  was  his  own  fault,  she  declared,  with  a 
definiteness  nearly  scientific,  however  much 
he's  suffered — and  even  though  she,  her 
friend,  had  "appeared"  to  throw  him  over. 
For  hadn't  she  died,  herself,  of  a  broken 
heart  soon  after  her  own  marriage,  on  ac- 
count of  him?  If  a  man  could  be  such  a  fool 
as  not  to  know  that  she  loved  him,  and  to 
let  her — 

I  missed  what  came  next,  for,  despite  my 
eagerness,  I  had  gone  off  on  a  tangent,  trying 
to  rearrange  things  in  the  light  she'd  already 
shed.  I  could  almost  grasp  the  truth  of  it — 
of  the  younger  man's  having  "funked"  (to 
use  her  mischosen  word)  his  love-affair,  I 
mean.  I  hardly  knew,  or  know  now,  why. 
Just,  I  guess,  because  I'd  realized  his  sensi- 
tiveness and  delicacy  so.  It  all  went  pathet- 
ically well  with  what  I'd  seen — the  dear 
house,  the  pets,  the  older  man,  those  masked 
expressions  changing.  .  .  .  Probably  a  man 
like  that  would  hoard  his  love  unduly. 

He  "did,  of  course,"  so  she,  my  informant, 
went  on  to  say  in  the  same  hard  tone,  try  to 

256 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

kill  himself.  He  was  in  some  sort  of  lodgings 
at  the  time.  He  had  actually  turned  on  the 
gas,  and  been  found  unconscious  there  by  the 
lodger  above,  who  smelled  the  danger  in  time 
and  rushed  down  to  save  him. 

And  he,  the  rescuer,  did  more  than  that 
later  on  (she'd  heard),  being  especially — 
"  What  can  you  say? — '  trained'?  for  the  case" 
by  a  similarly  unfortunate  experience  of  his 
own.  "Poor  thing!" 

Her  last  exclamation  came  as  an  after- 
thought— as  if  that  much,  perhaps,  was  for 
the  sake  of  elegance  only  fair;  and  she  went 
on  to  say  how  she'd  understood  he,  the 
younger  man,  had  learned  from  his  savior 
"some  New  Thought  or  other,"  which  had 
finally  put  him  on  his  feet  again. 

But  her  tone  was  so  loathsome  to  me — 
veritably,  she  seemed  to  want  to  flaunt  her 
hardness  in  my  face  lest  I  have  any  doubt  as 
to  how  she  felt  about  my  interest  in  the  sub- 
ject— that  I  couldn't,  much  as  I  longed  to 
get  more  out  of  her,  bear  to  ask  for  it. 

I  did  ask  her  one  question — for  the  identi- 
ties of  those  two  girls  whom  the  older  man 
must  have  painted  over  and  over  in  his 
inspired  leisure  were  beginning  to  dawn  on 
me.  I  asked  her  what  color  her  friend's  hair 

257 


UNDER   THE  ROSE 

was;  and  she  replied,  with  a  sudden  stare  at 
my  sanity: 

"  Why,  it  was  light  brown.  Almost  golden." 

At  this  point  in  my  investigations  I  came 
home  to  America.  It  was  several  years  ago 
— before  the  war,  naturally — and  I  didn't 
get  back  to  England  again  until  the  spring 
of  1918.  .  .  .  Remember,  I  haven't  tried  to 
embroider;  I'm  just  laying  the  facts  barely 
before  you — as  barely  as  I  can — to  make 
what  you  please  out  of. 

But  the  lives  of  those  two  men  haunted  me, 
as  I've  said;  I  never  forgot  for  long  the 
pathos,  or  charm — I  hardly  knew  which  to 
feel — of  their  incomparable  menage.  And 
when  I  went  back  that  year  I  didn't  forget, 
even  amid  the  consuming  hideousness  of  the 
war — say  nothing  of  my  own  mission — 
the  possibility  of  a  pilgrimage  to  the  dear 
house.  I  looked  forward  to  it  through  the 
terrors  of  the  Atlantic,  and  often  afterward, 
during  those  long  technical  discussions  which 
awaited  my  arrival,  I'd  have  to  dissemble 
lest  my  preoccupations  show;  and  I'd  gaze 
back  at  my  interlocutors,  wondering  what 
might  be  passing  in  their  own  minds,  per- 
haps. .  . .  Human  nature?  You  can't  beat  it ! 

258 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

So,  when  the  time  came  that  I  slipped 
away  to  Paddington  and  purchased  a  ticket 
for  Slough,  I  hadn't  pondered  much  yet  on 
the  folly  of  my  move;  the  full  weight  of  it 
for  the  first  time  struck  home.  There  I  was, 
deliberately  starting  off  in  the  thick  of  every- 
thing to  renew  that  chimerical  acquaintance. 
Scarcely  that;  for  the  men,  if  still  there, 
wouldn't  remember  me,  probably.  I  was 
just  grimly  carrying  out  a  resolve  I  had  long 
since  determined  upon,  to  make  up  for  what 
I  had  missed  before.  It  only  shows  you 
how  the  matter  had  impressed  me.  I  don't 
apologize,  either. 

But  the  plowed  swards  along  the  route 
caused  my  resolution  to  waver.  The  fact 
of  the  woman  taxi-driver  at  Slough  left  me 
momentarily  at  a  loss  as  to  my  destination. 

"Go//  Club?"  she  echoed,  blankly. 

I  directed  her  to  stop  at  the  gate  and  let 
me  out;  and  I  sat  there  then — or  stood,  I 
guess — until  she  drove  inquisitively  away. 
.  .  .  For  the  golf-links  were  covered  with 
young  crops,  and  Red  Cross  flags  flew  from 
the  once  "parlor "-match  merchant's  expa- 
triated residence. 

I  started  off  along  the  road,  finally.  It 
was  just  such  another  day,  too — the  kind 

259 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Tommies  in  the  trenches  would  say  was  "a 
bit  dull."  The  wide,  dark  thoroughfare 
I  wound  between  those  giant  trees,  from  whose 
lofty  summits,  again,  the  condensed  atmos- 
phere dripped  peacefully  down  to  the  dank 
earth.  It  seemed,  of  a  sudden,  perfectly 
natural  to  be  there.  Once  more  the  solemn 
luxuriance  of.  the  setting  hypnotized  me 
on. 

I  came  to  the  place  where  I  had  overheard 
the  older  man  and  the  younger  man  prattling 
as  they  hurried  expectantly  homeward.  I 
went  faster.  Yes,  the  little  gate  was  still 
there,  its  stile  reminiscent,  somehow,  of 
disuse. 

I  paused.  I  stopped.  I  looked  to  the 
right  of  me,  and  to  the  left.  What  should  I 
say  if  I  found  anybody  in?  ...  I  turned  the 
stile  and  trespassed  forward,  twisting  my 
way  between  the  high  rose-hedges  as  noise- 
lessly as  I  could,  but  the  petals  flocking 
down  despite  my  care. 

The  slender  path  was  weedy,  deserted. 
No  pattering  of  feet,  no  scrambling,  though  I 
harkejied  to  hear.  Not  a  bird  chirruped, 
even.  No  breeze  blew.  The  weather  was 
motionless  and  dead.  No  wee  cry  of  an 
animal  from  the  shrubbery. 

260 


THE  LITTLE   FAMILY 

I  pressed  along  until  the  dear  house 
melted  tranquilly  into  sight,  with  blossoms — 
other  blossoms  than  of  yore,  I  realized — 
faithfully  shielding  it.  Here  and  there  an 
open  casement  emphasized  the  stillness  with- 
in. But  the  house  was  exquisite;  it  was 
lovely;  it  wore  a  distilled  beauty  whence  all 
mirth  and  whimsicality  had  seeped  away. 

I  shied  at  the  sound  of  my  own  footsteps. 
It  was  only  through  sheer  will  power  that  I 
ventured  forward  and  tapped  timidly  upon 
the  door. 

For  a  long  while,  as  it  seemed,  nobody 
was  going  to  answer,  but  ere  I  had  temerity 
to  knock  again  I  heard  a  heavy,  incongruous 
tread,  and  half  determined  to  retreat  if  there 
was  yet  time.  But  the  sounds  came  faster, 
more  defiantly.  A  bolt  was  slid  cumber- 
somely  back.  The  door  opened,  and  a  fat, 
middle-aged  woman  in  crinoline  smiled  to 
me,  nodded  and  drew  up  her  head,  as  if  for  a 
sign  that  she  at  least  was  a  live  wire  in  the 
place  and  competent  to  deal  with  intruders. 

I  explained  my  arrival  as  best  I  could. 

"Yes,'*  she  interrupted,  with  an  accus- 
tomed air  of  boredom.  "But  there's  only 
one  left  for  you  to  see  now,  though  I'm 
sorry  to  have  to  say  it,  sir.  Come  in." 

261 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

The  younger  man  was  dead,  she  whis- 
pered, hoarsely.  News  of  his  death — rather 
vague,  to  be  sure,  but  "as  good  as  you  would 
expect  in  these  days" — had  arrived  two 
months  ago.  .  .  .  He  had  enlisted  among  the 
first — had  been  home  a  year  ago  on  leave. 
Strong  and  healthy  he  was  then,  and  happy 
to  come.  He'd  written  often;  she  pointed 
to  the  table-desk. 

But  it  was  a  cruel  blow  to  him  that  was 
left.  He'd  not  spoken  much  since,  to  her — 
or  anybody. 

He  painted — those  same  two  girls — but 
there  wasn't  "a  soul  now  to  help  him  imagine 
how  the  light  one  looked."  He  ate  "not 
much  at  all."  The  whole  house  was  very 
sad.  She'd  see  if  she  couldn't  get  him  in, 
however,  she  said.  It  would  do  him  good. 

I  had  seated  myself  where  she  directed, 
and,  for  some  minutes  after  she  went,  waited 
there  in  suspense.  But  the  minutes  grew, 
and  I  couldn't  hear  a  syllable  or  sound 
of  any  talk,  and  I  began  to  bide  my  time 
more  resolutely. 

To  make  myself  feel  less  flagrant  I  got  up 
and  began  moving  about,  looking  at  things. 
When  I  noticed  some  canvases,  unframed, 
standing  against  the  wainscot,  I  hastened  to 

262 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

them.  Yes,  three  more  of  each;  it  seemed 
hardly  strange  to  me.  Nor  did  I  wonder 
that  their  lonely  perpetrator  had  confused 
the  two  expressions — hers  of  the  golden  hair 
with  hers  of  the  dark — even  more  indiscrim- 
inately than  in  those  earlier  versions  that 
hung  on  the  walls.  Those  sad  memorials  of 
forgiveness  were  executed  valiantly.  These 
were  just  mournful,  inexpertly  poor  .  .  .  but 
wrought  as  if,  though  with  forgotten  ardor, 
to  carry  out  his  dual  trust  still  impartially, 
I  thought,  and  started  at  sound  of  footsteps 
on  the  little  flagged  path  outside. 

I  peered  through  a  window.  There  was 
nobody  coming.  .  .  .  Where  were  all  the  little 
family — the  pets?  I  wondered. 

I  think  it  was  the  postal  cards  I  saw  next. 
They  were  scattered  in  a  pile  on  the  table- 
desk,  some  with  the  pictures  up,  some  down — 
pictures  of  poplars,  and  sweet  French  fields, 
and  geese,  and  villages,  and  soldiers;  they 
were  all  addressed  "For  L.  A.  and  all  Their 
Friends." 

They  had  the  neglected  look  of  having  lain 
there  for  weeks.  .  .  . 

And  then  I  found  myself  gazing  at  those 
small  objects  that  stood  huddled  together  in 
a  sprightly  group  near  by.  Why  hadn't  I 

18  263 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

seen  them  before?  They  were  all  I  could 
see  now.  The  rest  of  the  room  was  but  space 
emphasizing  their  presence.  Dear  Heaven, 
how  I  looked! 

They  were  covered  with  dust.  But  their 
charm  shone  through — even  to  me.  Why? 
Why?  I  can't  say!  But  I  took  each  one 
reverently  up  in  my  hand.  I  was  still  hold- 
ing the  last  when  the  fat  woman's  voice 
sounded  suddenly  so  near  that  I  had  to 
dodge  to  the  sofa  without  putting  it  back. 

The  voice  faded  again — all  was  silent. 
From  the  tiny  slippery  object  in  my  hand  I 
glanced  off  behind  me  at  the  rows  on  rows 
of  books;  and  in  the  intensified  interval,  as 
if  with  a  fateful  clarity  of  selection,  my  eye 
hit  upon  Grimm,  Hans  Andersen,  Lewis 
Carroll,  Kenneth  Graham's  The  Wind  in 
the  Willows,  and  Stevenson's  A  Child's 
Garden  of  Verses,  and  The  Queen's  Mu- 
seum and  Other  Fanciful  Tales,  by  Frank 
R.  Stockton. 

I  heard  distinctly,  now,  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps— slow,  halting,  irregular,  as  when  one 
stumbles  along  with  a  cane — outside  on  the 
little  flagged  path.  I  heard  somebody  at  the 
outer  door — somebody  grasping  the  latch  to 
come  in. 

264 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

I  hadn't,  needless  to  say,  dreamed  of  any 
climax  or  crisis  I  might  arrive  in  the  nick  of 
time  to  witness.  And  I  couldn't  pull  myself 
together  to  make  a  move,  to  stand  up,  even, 
when  it  began  to  happen.  I  sat  there,  on  the 
sofa,  like  one  petrified. 

The  outer  door,  you  remember,  was  in  the 
room  where  I  was;  the  sofa  was  in  a  corner 
to  the  right  of  it,  the  door  being  to  my  left. 
The  table-desk  was  across  the  room,  opposite 
me,  on  the  other  side  of  the  way  that  led 
from  the  outer  door  to  the  one  through  which 
the  fat  woman  had  gone.  So  the  younger 
man,  as  he  entered  and  strove  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  table-desk,  did  not  see  me.  He 
didn't  look  round.  He  went  forward,  and 
stood  still  midway,  back  to  me,  nodding  his 
head  and  gazing. 

One  leg  was  gone  above  the  knee.  The 
crutches  he  carried  were  new,  as  freshly 
stained  as  an  apartment-house  hall,  and  it 
was  obvious  he  hadn't  mastered  the  use  of 
them.  He  had  a  mustache  and  wore  a 
captain's  uniform. 

A  murmur  escaped  him  when  he  saw  those 
canvases  on  the  floor  against  the  wainscot, 
and  he  groped  a  few  steps  toward  them,  then 
stopped  there  heartlessly.  He  edged  him- 

265 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

self  round  and  fixed  his  eyes  at  the  door 
through  which  the  fat  woman  went.  I  could 
hear  her  voice,  now — and  the  faltering  voice 
of  the  older  man. 

He  heard  it,  too.  His  eyes  dropped  ten- 
derly to  the  table-desk — to  that  huddled 
group  of  objects  from  among  which  I  had 
taken  the  tiny  slippery  thing  still  between  my 
hands.  And  I  could  see  the  tears  go  down 
his  rough  cheeks,  and  I  felt  my  own  throat 
swell  and  hurt,  and  had  to  press  my  lips 
tightly  together. 

Then  the  older  man  came  into  the  room, 
alone.  His  head  was  bent,  his  eyes  on  the 
woolen  carpet.  He  didn't  know,  of  course, 
whom  the  fat  woman  had  made  him  come  in 
to  see;  she  hadn't  been  able,  naturally,  to 
explain  who  I  was.  And  when,  at  the  other's 
cry,  he  first  looked  up,  he  failed — thank 
Heaven! — to  see  me  at  all.  He  only  glared 
ahead,  his  expression  expanding  in  fear. 

I  saw  them  rush.  I  could  hardly  bear  it. 
I  can  see,  now,  the  older  man's  arms — his 
unyouthful  hands — go  out  in  that  gesture; 
and  the  pause  that  came  between  them — the 
startled,  sudden,  shy  way  they  stopped  short 
of  each  other,  until  they  put  out  their  hands 
and  shook  in  silence,  as  on  a  business  pact. 

266 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

I  can  hear  what  they  said,  too,  afterward, 
when  explanations  were  over — shifting  quick- 
ly, as  they  did  then,  to  the  rare  intimate  foot- 
ing there  was  yet  between  them,  their  voices 
whimsically  toned  to  the  comfort  of  it: 

"How've  They  been?" 

"Wretched.  Cried  Their  eyes  out.  They 
didn't  want  to  live." 

"Didn't  They  hope?" 

"The  bravest  of  Them  tried." 

"  Good  Lion — nice  Lion !  Hello !  you  deat, 
good,  best  of  all  the  Little  Animals!" 

I  heard,  as  through  an  aftermath  of  sobs, 
a  miniature  gruff,  happy  play  b-r-r-r-ing 
answer. 

"He  says  how  he  tried  to  comfort  Them." 

"And  you,  Squirrel!  .  .  .  White  Rabbit! 
Little  Duck!  Big  Duck!  Elephant!  .  .  .  Why, 
see!  Where's  Walrus?" 

The  question  fell  in  earnest  contrast  to  the 
whimsicalness  of  the  rest,  and  the  two  men 
stood  gaping  blankly  at  the  table-desk, 
where  a  tiny  painted  papier-mache  object 
was,  as  I  knew,  missing. 

"Where  is  he?    Where  can  he  be?" 

It  took  the  older  man  but  a  moment  to 
recover  from  his  surprise  and  resume  the 
inimitable  tone,  and  answer:  "He's  right 

267 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

round  here,  some  place.  .  .  .  Walrus?  Wal- 
rus? .  .  .  He  must  have  gone  out  into  the 
garden,  I  expect,  to  pick  flowers.  He'll  be 
back  in  a  minute.  .  .  .  You  haven't  spoke  to 
Roosters,  yet — and  Ponies." 

My  fingers  burned  and  tingled.  I  let  the 
small  thing  I  was  holding  slip  away  on  to  the 
sofa.  I  felt  it  would  be  sacrilege  to  restrain 
it  any  longer.  And  I  fancied,  in  my  con- 
fusion, as  I  stood  up,  that  I  could  hear  a  low, 
a  hardly  perceptible,  whistling  sound  .  .  . 
scampering  feet  .  .  .  other  glad,  soft  play 
syllables — mingling  with  those  whimsical 
voices  of  the  two  men. 

I  tiptoed  faster  to  the  door.  I  yanked  it 
open,  finally,  and  shut  it  in  terror  behind  me 
lest  I  be  overtaken;  and  I  ran  down  the 
little  flagged  walk  through  showers  of  rose- 
petals  to  the  gate,  and  out  once  more  into 
the  wide,  dark  thoroughfare. 

We  were  slow  to  realize  Dyer  had  finished 
his  story.  Everybody  kept  waiting,  and 
watching  him,  after  he  stopped.  I  could  see 
him  peer  timidly  up  over  their  faces  for  a 
sign  of  approval.  Then  he  raised  the  drink, 
which  had  set  idly  mdlting  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  and  gulped  it  down. 

268 


THE  LITTLE  FAMILY 

At  a  loss  for  aught  else  he  could  do,  he 
twitched  one  of  his  trousers  at  the  knee ;  he 
blew  his  nose,  pulled  out  his  watch,  and,  as  if 
he  hadn't  vitality  to  face  down  comment — 
still  less,  the  absence  of  any — forced  himself 
evasively  to  his  feet. 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  doubt- 
ers then. 

It  stayed  Dyer's  progress,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, and  he  turned  to  the  speaker  ineptly. 

"You  mean — "  demanded  another  in  a 
blunt,  searching  manner,  "that  all  those 
animals  and — and  things,  were  not  even — ?" 

Dyer  turned  to  him,  too;  hesitated  in- 
effectively over  something  he  started  to  say; 
but,  on  second  thought,  lifted  his  head  and 
squared  his  shoulders.  And,  with  a  sigh 
that  bespoke  his  utter  realization  of  the 
futility  it  was  to  try  to  make  himself  under- 
stood in  so  matter-of-fact  a  world,  picked  up 
his  hat  abruptly  and  left  us. 


VIII 

HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 


NOTHING  would  induce  me  to  exploit 
what  I  know  about  Teddy  McElroy  as 
material — trick  it  out  for  the  market,  I 
mean,  with  hero  and  "love  interest"  garbled 
to  the  popular  pattern.  No,  I  care  too  much 
for  that — for  anything  except  to  ease  my 
mind  of  the  mere  truth.  Besides,  there  are 
things,  you  know,  this  war  uncovered,  fiction 
isn't  up  to;  not  yet,  at  least.  His  case  may 
be  one.  It's  all  climax,  with  hardly  begin- 
ning or  end — the  span  of  a  mad  romanticism. 
Properly  doctored,  it  doubtless  would  make  a 
good  seller,  though.  But  enough  said. 

When  I  first  knew  him  he  was  a  bell-boy 
at  a  club,  where  I  came  across  him  one  day, 
sitting  rather  wistfully  outside  the  squash- 
courts,  with  a  big,  red,  plush-covered  volume 

270 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL  COIL 

on  his  knees.  I  remember  that  I  thought 
Flights  From  the  Fireside  was  such  a  nice 
title  for  it,  and  asked  him  what  great  poet  he 
ranked  next  to  Longfellow.  But  he  only 
wiped  a  finger  and  opened  the  book  and  shyly 
pointed  out  to  me  Shelley's  "Ode  to  the  West 
Wind,"  double-columned  there  on  the  thick, 
gilt-edged  pages.  "  Though  it  goes  some 
hard,"  he  admitted. 

I  offered  him,  by  way  of  apology,  a  suit  of 
clothes  from  my  locker,  which  surprised  and 
absorbed  him  so  much  that  he  took  it  with- 
out a  word ;  just  felt  of  the  cloth  right  away, 
fondled  it,  turned,  and  strode  off,  whistling 
vaguely.  Wherefore  he  wrote  me  next  day 
the  most  touching  letter,  beginning  "dear 
friend,"  and  making  up  for  all  absence  of 
punctuation  by  the  size  of  the  dots  over  the 
small  i's  he  substituted  for  capitals. 

Then  he  cropped  up  several  weeks  later  at 
a  public  bath  place  where  I  would  go  for 
noonday  swims.  He  wandered  toward  me, 
staring,  stopping  intermittently  as  he  came, 
and  waited,  just  an  ingratiating  twinkle  in 
his  eye  by  way  of  introduction.  I  shouldn't 
have  recognized  him  undressed,  but  for  the 
red,  plush-covered  volume  in  his  hand — 
open  at  "The  West  Wind,"  I  next  discovered. 

271 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"Still  at  it,  are  you?"  I  said. 

"Nope.  Engineerin*.  Nights.  Come  here 
for  sun  and — " 

He  pointed  to  the  sea,  tossed  his  head 
pleasantly. 

So  I  asked  him  more  explicitly  what  he 
was  working  it,  and  found  his  "raise"  was  to 
the  freight-yards  of  a  railroad  company. 
Not  "drivin' '  a  locomotive — not  at  all. 
Some  sort  of  mechanical  doings;  something 
he'd  got  more  or  less  fitted  for  "draggin'  a 
chain  in  Canada."  Whatever  he  meant,  I 
let  it  go  at  that,  wishing  not  to  strip  his 
pride  bare. 

"Let's —    You  swim,  can't  you?" 

But  he  was  ready  with  a  grave,  obsequious 
look  of  understanding  if  I  couldn't.  I  reas- 
sured him.  Too  presumptuously,  I  decided 
after  we  started.  For  he'd  crawl  like  light- 
ning leagues  away,  thrust  his  head  up  round 
to  sight  me,  and  have  to  come  trudgening 
back;  and  then,  turning  a  few  somersaults 
impatiently,  just  as  a  sobering  preliminary, 
pause  into  my  breast-stroke  alongside. 
"  Restin',"  he  called  it.  He  met  my  applause 
with  further  prowess,  and,  when  I  vainly 
imitated,  said:  "Ain't  it  more  easy,  say? 
See  how  quick  you  got  it!" 

272 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

I  didn't  know  any  more  about  him  than 
this,  though.  I  met  him  a  few  other  times 
on  the  beach,  always  with  his  book  tucked 
under  an  arm,  very  much  as  if  it  had  been  a 
newspaper.  This  was  in  the  spring  and 
summer  of  1914.  He  disappeared  casually 
in  the  course  of  things.  I  didn't  even  know 
he'd  gone  to  war.  Never  thought  of  it. 
Those  letters  did  come  out  in  the  papers  not 
so  much  later,  but  I  missed  seeing  them. 

Poring  back  over  the  ground,  nothing 
seems  to  me  more  like  a  clue  to  it  all  than  that 
he  wrote  them.  I  mean:  they  show  that 
the  miracle  hadn't  begun  yet  then.  He'd 
gone  to  fight,  he'd  been  in  the  trenches 
several  weeks  or  more,  but  that  wasn't 
enough  to  start  him.  He  was  still  the  unini- 
tiated lad  I'd  seen,  with  the  divine  spark  still 
hidden  in  him. 

One,  two,  perhaps — I  never  asked  him  how 
many — was  to  a  girl  who  lived  in  Fitchburg, 
Mass. ;  the  other — or  others — to  his  mother, 
staying — not  living — in  the  same  place.  He'd 
pacified  her,  his  mother,  you  see,  when  she 
tried  to  prevent  his  enlisting,  by  the  state- 
ment that  he  was  only  going  back  to  Canada, 
where  her  mother  lived,  from  whose  roof  he'd 
fled  once  as  a  boy  (to  drag  that  chain,  I 

273 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

suppose).  And  he  did  go;  not  to  his  grand- 
mother, of  course,  but  to  the  infantry  there, 
where  his  under-ageness  wouldn't  be  so  cur- 
rent or  questioned.  The  girl  he'd  known 
only  humdrumly — the  knowing  being  mostly 
on  her  side.  They'd  buggyed  together  when 
that  railroad  sent  him  once  to  measure  a 
piece  of  track  in  her  neighborhood;  they 
went  to  picture-shows  and  sat  on  the  piazza. 
I  believe  he  was  perfectly  direct  when  he 
told  me,  those  years  afterward,  that  he'd 
never  come  within  "a  thousand  kilometers" 
of  mentioning  to  her  such  a  possibility  as 
marriage. 

But  you  can  imagine  what  it  was  like  in 
the  trenches  when  there  came  a  lull.  Letter- 
writing  was  as  comme  il  faut  probably  as 
at  a  house-party.  A  mere  parent,  moreover, 
didn't  dramatically  suffice.  So  he  dug  up 
the  memory  of  that  Fitchburg  girl  and  set 
her  on  the  pedestal  of  his  emergency. 

He  wasn't  homesick  or  very  bored  or  dis- 
heartened, as  you'll  see,  but  what,  with  the 
censor  to  satisfy  (however  less  rigid  censor- 
ship was  in  those  early  days),  and  with  his 
epistolary  inexperience,  he  fell  into  driveling 
sentimentalities.  He  wrote  how  he  won- 
dered what  they  were  doing  away  off  across 

274 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL  COIL 

the  world,  and  if  he  could  only  drop  in  for  an 
evening;  said  he  was  all  fed  up  with  war; 
doubted,  likely,  if  he'd  ever  be  spared  to  see 
his  native  land.  Sheer  easy-going  sad  stuff, 
you  know,  flowers  of  ennui,  for  which  he'd 
racked  his  brains — hardly  that! — to  fill  the 
bill. 

And  he  filled  it  with  a  vengeance.  Hence 
the  tragedy.  His  mother  got  hers  and  wept. 
The  girl  got  hers  and  flew — like  Micaela — 
to  the  mother  of  her  far-lured  deserter,  who 
she  was  sure  loved  her  best  if  only  .  .  .  and 
all  that.  The  two  stricken  women  must 
have  got  all  there  was  out  of  it.  More. 
They  may  even  have  got  a  lawyer  then.  I 
don't  know. 

The  letters,  two,  at  any  rate,  appeared  in 
the  papers,  headed:  "Sweetheart  of  Fitch- 
burg  Society  Girl  Decoyed  to  the  Firing- 
line;  Mother  Seeks  Aid  from  President  to 
Recover  Infant  Son."  (He  was  only  eigh- 
teen or  nineteen  by  that  time.)  Lord  knows 
what  else. 

They  didn't  leave  a  stone  unturned,  ap- 
parently. Birth  certificates  were  forwarded 
to  consuls,  ambassadors  importuned.  Till, 
like  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  the  ambitious  per- 
petrator of  those  missives,  who  had  faced 

275 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

death  and  destruction  for  whatever  glamour 
it  might  afford,  found  himself  honorably 
discharged  from  His  Majesty's  service  and 
sent  under  escort  to  England,  there  to  be 
placed  on  an  American  steamer  bound  for  the 
United  States. 

All  of  this  happened  'way  back  in  the  first 
year  of  the  war.  I  found  it  out  only  in  the 
summer  of  1917.  I  was  working  in  my  office 
late  one  afternoon  when  the  girl  at  the 
switchboard  announced  there  was  somebody 
waiting  to  see  me.  I  was  living  in  the  coun- 
try, debating  whether  to  go  home  or  stay  in 
town,  and  supposed  it  was  my  neighbor's 
chauffeur  sent  to  offer  me  a  lift. 

Instead,  a  tall  Scottish  officer  entered  my 
room — a  major,  I  noted,  with  an  eye  to  his 
shoulders.  Wings  embroidered  on  his  gold- 
buttoned  coat.  McKenzie  plaid  trews  for 
trousers.  A  jeweled  dagger — a  feathered  cap 
which  he  shifted  under  an  arm  as  he  ap- 
proached and  stood  still  to  greet  me. 

"Nice  tan  that  you  have." 

Was  it  so  conspicuous? 

"But  I  say!  Aren't  you  glad  at  all  to  see 
me?" 

No  victim  of  apparitions  felt  ever  more 
hallucinated.  I  beheld,  if  I  had  a  mind 

276 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL  COIL 

left,  a  civilized,  cultured,  man-of-the-worldish 
Scotsman — Englishman — which?  Hair  dash- 
ingly groomed  in  the  British  way  (there  is  a 
difference,  you  know) — an  insular  bloom  on 
his  cheeks — with  a  carefully  trained  light 
mustache — scarcely  a  vestige  to  vouch  for 
his  identity! 

"Won't  you  olease  sit  down?"  I  sug- 
gested. 

There  was  just  a  trace  then — an  echo  in 
that  wondering  laugh.  I  threw  my  arms 
around  him  and  hugged  him.  Mostly  from 
general  overwrought  relief,  I  guess. 

"You  haven't  changed  much  he  com- 
mented. 

"Don't  rub  it  in,"  I  answered. 

Again  that  echo. 

"  Why,  Teddy  —  you  were  —  you  were 
young,  and — and  unformed,  and — " 

"A  bit  crude  was  I,  eh?" 

He  straightened  himself,  reaping  the  har- 
vest of  my  stupefaction.  It  was  what  he'd 
come  for.  I  began  to  realize  that  as  I  got 
my  breath  and  we  talked  on. 

"On  leave  now?"  I  endeavored  to  assume, 
calmly,  bracing  myself  against  the  chair. 

"Not  exactly  that.  'Exchange,'  I  think 
you  say.  You  wired  for  two  young  officers 

277 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

with  wings,  to  help  along — God  bless  it! — 
the  great  new  nation  that's  to  win  for  us. 
So  Reese — the  mad  major,  d'you  see? — was 
despatched,  I  with  him.  We're  billed  and 
booked  for  Texas  to-morrow.  At  your  ser- 
vice, sir. . .  .  But — but  I  did  want  to  see  you, 
I  say." 

A  lump  rose  in  my  throat.  And  it  wasn't 
only  that  last  delicate  fall  of  the  voice  for 
me,  either — dropping  its  hint  that  this  vision 
wouldn't  presume  on  my  friendship!  Every- 
thing got  me  completely. 

Thus  it  was  through  the  first  hours  of  the 
long  evening  we  spent  together.  I  stared  in 
awe,  fearful  lest  he  fade  the  next  moment, 
like  Cinderella's  palace.  I  feared  constantly, 
pinching  myself  to  be  sure  I  was  awake.  In 
vain;  he  made  good  every  time.  With 
every  word,  every  gesture,  every  idea.  At 
each  further  one  of  his  embarkations  I  hung 
in  suspense,  while  he  carried  each  mag- 
nificently through,  to  my  shame.  Such  diffi- 
cult things  he  embarked  on,  too. 

That  speech  of  his  to  the  bartender  who 
refused  him  a  drink:  No  explanation  that 
his  uniform  was  foreign,  mind  you.  No 
complaint.  Only  a  fervent  paragraph  in 
which  he  expressed  the  hope  that  "your 

278 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL  COIL 

law  is  the  right  way"  and  that  "this  will 
do  the  trick  for  us — perhaps  it's  where  we're 
wrong."  And  then,  when  I  explained  that 
the  man  was  stupid,  that  it  wasn't  our  law 
to  refuse  him — that  we'd  go  elsewhere. 
"No,  really  no.  Rather  be  a  slacker  just 
now.  Promise  you  I  had.  Drink  to  /ier,  if 
you  will?" 

I  waited.  What  next?  He  was  fumbling 
in  his  small  breast  pocket,  an  outside  one — 
yes,  one  over  his  heart;  saying  the  while: 

"Yet  I  always  do  when  I  go  up.  Bad 
habit,  maybe.  I  wonder!  I've  known  fel- 
lows never  get  back  who  didn't.  Nerves — 
something — who  knows?  I  have  it  here — 
one  second.  To  her?'' 

He  unfolded  a  trim  leather  case — from 
Vickery's  on  Upper  Regent  Street,  I  ob- 
served— handed  it  to  me. 

What  I  saw  seemed,  for  a  moment,  the 
supreme  test  of  him;  the  greatest  a  man  can 
undergo.  You  know  how  you  feel  when 
acquaintances,  friends  even,  show  you  a  pict- 
ure of  a  girl  they're  going  to  marry?  You 
know  how  the  pictures  look  to  you?  But, 
ask  me  to  this  day  (as  people  do)  what  my 
idea  of  feminine  charm  and  beauty  is,  and 
I'll  answer:  the  daughter  of  Sir  Lionel  Brent, 

19  279 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Bart.,  as  she  looked  to  me  in  that  picture, 
standing  by  that  bar  that  night — affianced 
for  three  months  to — 

I  forgot  my  glass.  He  reminded  me.  And 
I  raised  it  and  drank  to  them  both  with  all 
my  soul — as  in  a  dream. 

"I've  had  rather  poor  luck  with  girls, 
d'you  see?"  he  said.  "The  badgering  vam- 
pirish  kind,  ones  who  asked  you"  (his  mind 
drifted  back,  but  his  voice  didn't  waver)  "to 
meet  'em  in  unhandy  places  when  there  was 
real  work  ahead.  Just  because  it  was  diffi- 
cult. Just  to  do  you,  you  know.  And  I've 
been  bullied  and  done.  But"  (he  took  the 
picture  from  me  and  gazed  at  it  like  a  prince) 
"I — I  get  down  on  my  knees  and  pray  for 
that  little  girl." 

We  talked  on  until  four  in  the  morning — 
until  long  after  I  began  to  think  beyond  his 
mere  perfections.  To  fathom  the  secret  of 
it  became  uppermost  in  my  mind. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  explained,  "and 
wanted  also  that  you  see  me — somebody 
who—" 

He'd  looked  up  my  address  at  the  club — 
the  very  same  club,  fancy ! — and  then  waited 
till  nearly  five  o'clock  lest  he  disturb  me. 
He'd  been  walking  the  streets,  confronting 

280 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

the  haunts  of  his  boyhood  with  his  new  eyes — 
as  one  comes  back  to  old  mirrors  for  the 
truth  after  momentous  things.  And  I  was 
an  old  mirror,  in  a  sense.  He  wanted  to 
show  himself  to  just  somebody  who  would 
judge.  He  did  need  somebody's  word  be- 
sides his  own  for  it — for  the  success  of  his 
plan. 


He  described  how  he  felt  when  he  found 
himself  discharged  from  the  army — taken 
under  escort  to  that  homeward-bound  ship. 
It  seemed  at  last  to  him  that  he  was  up 
against  a  dead  wall.  Blackness  on  all  sides — 
past,  future.  Nothing  to  be  proud  of;  noth- 
ing to  gain. 

"  It  was  immensely  worse  than  just  being 
killed,"  he  said. 

Released  on  that  boat,  he  viewed  it.  The 
decks  were  slippery  and  gubby  with  rain. 
Due  questions  about  him  had  been  asked, 
answered  by  his  escorts  before  they  went 
ashore,  with  a  "Safe  to  mother's  lap  now, 
Kiddy!"  Poor  "Ma"! 

"I  wonder  if  you  can  understand?"  he 
kept  interjecting  as  he  continued. 

It  was  the  worst  Southampton  fog.    Tor- 

281 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

rential  rain.  Calm,  ensnaring  seas.  Every- 
body but  him  was  busy  getting  the  ship  off. 
He  was  only  baggage,  returned  freight  found 
wanting,  scarce  worth  the  space  for  it,  he 
estimated,  gazing  at  the  backs  of  busy  men 
near  the  stern.  But — but — "tameless  and 
swift  and  proud"!  The  words  from  that 
favorite  poem  of  his  actually  flew  into  his 
mind,  he  said.  Amid  the  whistles  and  yells 
that  dinned  the  oncoming  gloom. 

I  had  forgotten  about  his  Flights  From 
the  Fireside,  and  couldn't  help,  while  at 
this  point  he  lit  a  cigarette,  asking  what  had 
ever  become  of  it;  made  conscious  then  by 
his  patient  smile  that  my  remark  was  perhaps 
vieux  jeu — out  of  scale  also — as  I  gaped 
across  again,  beholding  him.  Wasn't  the 
humor  of  that  book,  as  of  all  such  things, 
strictly  of  the  past?  Shouldn't  one  have  got, 
like  him,  beyond  it?  There  was  no  Before 
the  War. . .  .  But  I  must  have  misunderstood 
his  smile.  It  wasn't  patient,  but  sad,  tender, 
whimsical. 

"  I  had  it  with  me  at  the  time  in  my  pack," 
he  said.  "Read  it  always  when  I  got  back 
from  the  first  line.  Should  still  if  it  hadn't—" 

The  boat  was  well  under  way.  He  watched 
the  foam  gurgling  round  the  side,  and  looked 

282 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

up  to  the  lamplit  shore  as  for  the  last  time. 
He  followed  it  along.  And  all  at  once  it 
represented  almost  the  very  goal  he'd  left 
home  for.  He  couldn't  puzzle  out  why, 
didn't  understand.  But  it  was  like  a  haven 
he  felt  himself  being  torn  from — "tameless 
and  swift  and  proud."  Never  quite,  when 
he  left  home,  had  he  bothered  to  reason  out 
why  he  was  going  to  fight.  It  hadn't  been 
so  much  to  fight,  perhaps,  as  to  expand.  His 
reasons,  whatever  they  were,  loomed  to  him 
of  a  sudden  as  most  definitely,  concretely 
embodied  in  that  hazy,  dim  shore  he  was 
leaving. 

Drenched  to  the  skin  by  the  rain,  mind 
you.  Grasping  the  rail  in  the  dark.  Not 
much  chance  for  a  revelation,  do  you  think? 
But  he  had  it.  Like  that,  all  at  once,  he  got 
a  first  sight  of  what  it  might  conceivably  be 
like  to  get  away  from  himself  forever — 
enough,  anyway,  to  inspire  his  decisive  step. 
His  whole  scheme,  doubtless  developed  only 
gradually. 

The  downpour  had  driven  everybody  in- 
side except  the  hands  still  busy  on  the  poop, 
whose  work  might  be  done  at  any  moment. 
How  many  yards  could  it  be  to  the  land? 
He  suspected  footsteps  coming — hordes  of 

283 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

them — voices  calling.  He  told  me  that  then, 
in  that  infinitesimal  interval,  his  mind  shot 
sharply  back  to  our  public  bathing-place,  to 
gage  whether  my  applause  of  his  prowess 
was  dependable  for  the  attempt.  He  sprang 
over  the  side,  before  the  men  turned,  and 
leaped  out  as  far  as  he  could. 

He  never  could  make  himself,  he  said, 
recollect  the  last  lap  of  that  swim.  The  be- 
ginning, after  the  ship  was  clear,  was  easy. 
He  crawled,  face  in  water,  "resting"  now  and 
again  to  get  his  direction.  He  grew  very 
winded,  his  strength  dwindled  with  his  con- 
fidence. Then  he  found  himself  saying,  "Be 
thou  me,  impetuous  one,"  over  and  over, 
long  after  it  became  meaningless  as  a  fillip 
and  persisted  automatically  in  time  with  his 
strokes.  After  that  .  .  .  oblivion  .  .  .  the 
shore  somehow,  to  which  he  dragged  himself 
numb  and  reeling.  A  mile  from  the  town, 
about.  He  hired  a  wretched  room  and  dried 
his  clothes — civilian  ones  he'd  "borrowed" 
to  go  home  in — and  took  the  next  train  for 
London. 

He  prowled  around  through  that  night 
and  the  following  day,  making  up  his  mind. 
Nobody  there  he  knew;  American  resources 
out  of  the  question.  Then  the  thought  of  a 

284 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

man  called  Lord  Irelie,  there  on  leave,  whom 
he'd  chanced  a  few  words  with  once  before- 
hand— under  what  circumstances  he  didn't 
tell — came  to  his  rescue.  He  looked  "out" 
his  address,  found  he  was  "on  the  telephone," 
and,  catching  him  opportunely  off  to  Scot- 
land, accompanied  him  thither  to  his  castle 
for,  as  eventuated,  a  fortnight's  stay.  Irelie 
was  about  his  size  and  "fitted  him"  very 
nicely. 

"I  must  have  had  a  trick  of  picking  up 
things  I  heard  when  I'd  time,"  he  explained, 
further.  "At  any  rate,  they  forgot  in  some 
days,  I  ventured  to  think,  I'd  not  always 
been  Scottish— if  I  hadn't." 

If  he  hadn't?  When  he'd  time?  I 
weighed  it  questioningly.  Was  it  "time" 
that  was  of  the  essence?  Well — there  was  no 
time  now  to  answer. 

For  McCoy  of  Loch  Louie  (I  must  get 
straight  in  my  head)  and  Ornby  of  Fife  were 
organizing  a  battalion — precisely  as  he  turned 
up,  needless  to  say — and  wanted  him  to 
join.  It  was  to  have  been  private,  at  first; 
but  the  Crown  took  it  over  and  handled  it. 
And  that's  how  he  became  of  the  King's 
Highlanders,  and  "of  the  land,"  and 
twenty -eight  years  old — so  far  on  with 

285 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

his  plan  now  there  could  be  no  going  back 
on  it. 

I'm  picking  out  the  more  important  bits 
here  and  there,  as  what  I  take  it  was  his 
next  step,  which  came  after  the  battle  of 
Loos,  when  of  that  whole  battalion  there 
were  thirty  only  remaining. 

They  were  scattered,  stunned.  There 
wasn't  much  else  to  do,  so  he  proceeded  to 
get  them  together  and  march  them  around. 
"You  can  imagine?"  he  said.  "Confusion, 
no  one  paying  attention  to  us.  They  didn't 
know  where  to  go.  Somebody  had  to  lead." 
He  rose  to  the  occasion.  "That  was  all." 
He,  an  N.  C.  O. — a  "one  pipper,"  was  his 
word  for  it. 

Until  a  captain  strolling  by  saw  and 
shouted,  "You'd  better  have  an  officer 
there,  hadn't  you?"  And  he  answered, 
smiling,  and  surveying  the  desolated  scene, 
"Most  certainly,  sir,  if  you'll  find  one." 

Thus  he  kept  control  of  his  little  band  for 
ten  whole  days — the  nucleus  of  his  career. 
He  got  to  like  those  fellows  more  and  more, 
he  "promised"  me.  Then  a  brigadier  ar- 
rived, and  they  were  regularly  taken  in 
charge — sent  out  to  put  up  barbed  wire  at 
the  wrong  times,  so  that  they  dwindled  to 

286 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL  COIL 

nine.  He  hated  to  go  then  the  last  time. 
It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  too — "and  the 
spring  comes  slowly  up  that  way,  doesn't  it, 
though?" — but  he  couldn't  object.  Less 
than  an  hour  afterward  he  saw  the  other 
eight  done  for  at  a  yard's  distance.  "Ma- 
chine-gun, of  course.  I  myself  got  the  very 
best  wound  a  man  in  England  had  up  to  then 
survived.  . . ."  Not  recovered  from  wholly; 
he  limped,  as  I  could  see,  "but  only  when  the 
weather  was  bad,"  due  to  sciatica  that  re- 
sulted from  it.  It  was  a  bayonet  thrust, 
"here  just  above  the  hip,"  he  said,  "and 
clean  through. ' '  Though  it  must  have  struck 
higher  than  he  described,  as  some  dozen 
inches  of  intestines  had  to  be  removed. 

"The  very  best  wound"  didn't  half  do  it 
justice.  Why — Sir  Somebody  Somebody,  the 
greatest  surgeon  in  all  England,  heralded  it 
like  a  pet  experiment.  Everybody  heard  of 
it.  Everybody  came  to  that  hospital  where 
he  was.  The  Queen  as  well;  she  stooped 
over  his  cot  and  tried  to  murmur  apropos 
words,  and  slipped  "this  gold  cross,"  which 
he  fished  from  a  pocket  to  show  me,  into  his 
hand.  (Queens  did  have  a  certain  usefulness 
in  these  days,  I  was  bound  to  think.)  And 
Lady  Tunderly,  of  Southcote  in  Kent,  not  so 

287 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

far  away,  had  him  removed  thither  as  soon 
as  his  strength  permitted. 

Thence  began  a  series  of  visits  for  his  con- 
valescence. All  of  which  facts  I  had  rather 
to  dig  for,  let  me  say.  But  he  was  swapped, 
as  nearly  as  I  could  make  out,  from  duchess 
to  duchess.  No  wonder  that  with  his  trick 
of  hearing  (and  of  seeing,  he  ought  also  by 
rights  to  have  confessed  to)  he  had  heard 
and  seen  enough  to  make  up  for  everything 
which  he'd  earlier  missed.  And — on  top  of 
it  all — aviation  was  in  readiness  to  atone  for 
his  recovery.  He  was  seconded  from  his 
regiment,  made  captain  in  another  two 
months,  shot  through  the  right  lung  soon, 
and,  being  death-proof,  became  a  major. 
Twice — on  the  occasion  of  each  commission 
— he  had  been  presented,  wearing  a  Napo- 
leonic fur  cap,  with  thirty-two  yards  of 
tartan  around  his  neck,  the  long  ends  flut- 
tering over  his  shoulders.  Courts,  too,  thank 
Heaven,  survived  to  some  purpose. 

"You've  flown — over  France?"  I  had  to 
ask. 

"And  Mesopotamia — and — " 

I  shuddered. 

"Dropped  a  few  on  Heidelberg." 

Well — we  were  back  in  his  apartment  at 

288 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

the  hotel  finally,  for  me  to  see  all  the  pictures 
he'd  kept  of  everything.  He  took  me  up 
himself,  by  the  way,  the  elevator-man  being 
— it  was  late — nowhere  visible.  "Step  in, 
won't  you?"  he  bade  me;  and  clicked  to  the 
sliding  glass  door  and  took  the  lever,  from 
experience  unmistakable — doffing  his  new 
code,  you  see,  for  this  emergency.  But  not 
for  long.  His  own  man  answered  our  knock. 
"Say  to  the  porter,  please,  I've  left  the  lift 
on  this  floor.  You  needn't  wait  up,"  were 
his  orders.  And  he  proceeded  then  to  show 
me  the  photographs,  one  by  one — like  for  all 
the  world  exhibits  he  was  handing  out  to  me, 
now  that  the  testimony  was  finished,  in 
support  of  his  case. 

"That's  McCoy  of  Loch  Louie,"  he  got  to 
at  length.  "If  ever  there  was  a  friend  in 
this  world,  McCoy  of  Loch  Louie  is  a  friend 
of  mine.  One  night  at  Irelie's"  (he  extricated 
a  snap-shot  of  the  big  dismal  hall  and  sub- 
mitted it),  "the  whole  lot  of  them  talking 
over  there,  I  got  him  in  a  corner — there — 
and  told  him  the  whole  story." 

"Oh,  you  did!"  I  echoed,  surprised  at  my 
satisfaction. 

"  I  never  was  to  tell  it  to  anybody,  either" 
(that  burr-r  again),  "but  I  lacked  courage 

289 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

just  then,  I  expect,  and  there  was  that  in 
him  like  yourself  didn't  undo  me  to  have 
him  know." 

I  puzzled  over  it,  trying  hard  to  conceal 
my  disappointment,  though  it  was  resolving 
itself  in  me,  I  admit,  like  a  lump  of  lead. 

"What  did  he  say?"  I  asked,  for  a  straw 
to  help  me. 

"He  said  I'd  as  good  a  right  as  himself, 
d'you  see?  'The  McElroys  are  many,'  he 
said,  'but  we'll  be  finding  you  a  grandfather, 
m'  lad.  He'll  be  over  the  heath  here  a  hun- 
dred miles  or  so,  no  doubt.'  Rather  hand- 
some of  him." 

Silence. 

"And  I  must  have  had"  (mark  his  "have 
had")  "blood  in  me  somewhere.  My  father — 
didn't  know  much  about  any  pater,  he  dead 
so  long — emigrated,  I  expect.  Fancy,  though, 
he  married  a  bit  shy  of  himself.  He  married 
a  Ferguson." 

Damn  Old- World  snobbery,  after  all.  It 
poisoned  the  very  bloom  it  fertilized  into 
being.  .  .  .  But — but  I  must  have  time  to 
think.  One — one  couldn't  demand  him,  un- 
der all  the  circumstances,  to  reconstruct  too 
literally;  one  need  but  glance  to  see  why, 
as  he  went  on  handing  his  further  exhibits 

290 


HIS   NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

out  so  scrupulously — other  likenesses  of  the 
daughter  of  Sir  Lionel  Brent,  now,  that  made 
his  voice  soften  nearly  to  a  whisper. 

"She  comes  up  to  about  my  shoulder — 
here.  That's  better  of  her  eyes."  (This  one 
had  a  large  ME  written  in  the  corner.) 
"And  her  hat's  off  there.  You  can  see  her 
hair — dark  shining  brown.  I  don't  expect, 
either,"  he  added  argument atively,  "you  will 
ever  know  me  quite  well  until  you  know 
her." 

I  waited,  impressed  and  dubious,  brooding 
in  silence.  One  hadn't  to  be  assured  of  the 
sort  she  was. 

"What  does  she  know?"  I  couldn't  help 
asking. 

"Everything  that's  pertinent." 

I  nodded,  at  a  loss  still,  but  without  the 
right  to  press  him  further.  "  Supposed  you'd 
not  have  sounded — or  looked — so — so  dif- 
ferent over  there,"  I  only  said. 

He  smiled  at  that,  fingering  the  ends  of  his 
mustache  confidently.  "The  preliminaries 
were  difficult,"  he  observed.  "I  used  to 
talk  English  to  the  Scotsmen  and  Scottish  to 
the  English — at  first.  When  they  asked 
questions,  I'd  give  them  a  Gaelic  answer — 
ask  another,  d'you  see?" 

291 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

No  hesitancies  over  this;  no  embarrass- 
ment or  shame. 

"At  first?"  I  let  slip. 

"Did  the  trick,  eh?" 

He  drew  himself  up  as  if  to  show  me. 

"They'd  all  like  you  better  for  what  you 
are.  They'd  forgive  you  in  an  instant — 
now,"  I  said. 

I  might  have  been,  to  judge  by  his  de- 
meanor, a  hundred  miles  from  the  point. 
It  was  the  last  thing,  apparently,  he  expected 
me  to  balk  at  or  have  to  thresh  out.  He 
began — to  show  you — by  taking  the  pictures 
from  my  knees  and  piling  them  together 
right  away  to  put  back  in  their  case  on  the 
table. 

"I'm  not  a  four-flusher,  I  thought  I 
needn't  explain,"  he  relented  to,  pausing. 

But  why  not?  My  silence  must  have 
implied,  with  a  crassness  that  weighs  on  me 
still. 

And,  lighting  a  cigarette  in  his  bewil- 
derment: 

"Did  I  pretend  to  you — at  that  club — on 
that  beach?" 

I  felt  stupid,  half  back  in  one  of  my  fear- 
some moods  lest  he  fade  under  my  very  eyes. 

"But  did  I  seem  to  want  to,  eh?" 

292 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

"Whatever  you  want,  you  have  the  right 
to  now,"  I  assented,  dreamily. 

His  sincerity  shone  in  that  desperate 
quick  scrutiny  he  cast  around,  as  though  for 
inscrutable  ruins  already;  in  that  stoop  of 
the  shoulders,  that  pallor,  that  majestic 
humility. 

" She'd  understand!"  he  grasped  at, 
bravely,  to  himself,  with  a  splendid  stare  at 
me  that  forestalled  questions.  "But  how 
could  I,  if  she  knew,  be  what  I  am — any 
more  than  now  what  I  was?'* 

in 

One  must  see  him  and  hear  him,  as  I  did,  I 
suppose.  But  oh,  I  wonder  if  he  would  have 
brushed  for  you,  by  that  last  righteous  touch, 
all  cobwebs  aside;  lifted  the  final  veil  of 
suspicion;  swept  you  to  him  on  the  spot,  to 
hand  out,  the  soonest  you  could,  a  just 
verdict.  I  still  half  think  it  may  have  been 
wholly  my  fault.  But  where  was  one,  never 
having  been  to  war,  to  have  got  standards 
applicable  to  such  a  state  of  things?  One 
got  them  there,  perhaps.  But  without  them, 
how  could  one  be  up  to  his  plan  in  a  flash — 
let  alone  judge  it? 

293 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

For  his  quandary  wasn't  lest  the  daughter 
of  Sir  Lionel  Brent  might  throw  him  over, 
but  lest  the  man  she  loved  might,  if  he  told 
her,  cease  to  exist — like  Samson  shorn. 
"One  or  the  other,"  he  argued,  further;  "I 
couldn't  be  both — worse  luck — d'you  see?" 
He  flatly  denied  his  ability  to  pretend 
anything. 

He  wouldn't  have  it  that  he  was  one  bit  an 
adventurer  in  the  slang  sense;  that  much  of 
his  intention  was  really  almost  beginning  to 
dawn  on  me.  So  little  was  it  his  scheme 
that  he  didn't  now  mean  even  to  disclaim 
the  past.  To  disclaim  the  past  was  to  claim 
the  present,  and  he  refused  to  claim  any- 
thing. Instead,  he'd  just  shuffled  off  his 
old  mortal  coil  entirely,  as  something  never 
to  be  accounted  for  by  him  in  this  world 
again.  He  hoped,  believed,  he  was  another 
person. 

A  subtle  distinction,  you  say.  I  warn  you, 
I  answer:  that  was  his  plan — the  plan  he'd 
come  to  me  with,  needing  another  word  of 
encouragement  for,  now  the  familiarity  of 
old  surroundings  was  pressing  on  him  heavy 
and  strong  as  in  the  days  he'd  leaped  from 
once  and  forever  when  he  dropped  over  the 
side  of  that  retrogressive  steamer  and  swam, 

294 


the  germ  of  an  idea  guiding  him,  to  the 
receding  shore.  McCoy  of  Loch  Louie  and  I 
didn't  count.  I  swallowed  my  own  negligi- 
bility well  enough.  Being  negligible,  he  sac- 
rificed us  as  the  smallest  possible  price  for 
what  his  plan  required,  then  as  now.  But 
that  was  all  he  dared  sacrifice.  To  none  who 
counted  did  he  concede  an  iota  of  his  ideal, 
lest  if  he  did  he  might  have  to  let  go  all  that 
he  had  become. 

The  magic  quality  of  his  conviction  floored 
me,  but  spurred  me  on.  "It  sounds  pretty 
necromantic,"  I  said,  with  some  levity,  I'm 
afraid — distracted  from  it  by  the  unworthy 
thought  that  my  word  was  unfairly  beyond 
him. 

"It  was — is — a  weakness — 'necromantic/ 
if  you  like." 

His  plush-covered  volume  recurred  to  me 
subtly  like  a  rebuke,  though  I  had  to  ponder 
hard  why.  Wasn't  it  his  earliest — earliest 
I  knew — symptom  of  that  "weakness"? 
Had  I  ever  stopped  to  consider  why  his 
having  picked  me  out  again  on  that  beach 
was,  despite  my  negligibility,  a  compliment? 

But  there  were  questions  enough  besides 
these.  There  was  nothing  to  come  except 
questions.  "So,  how  can  I  go  to  his  mother 
20  2*5 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

now,  or  make  the  least  sign  to  her?"  was 
the  next  one  he  heaped  upon  me  with  a 
crash. 

"She  doesn't  know  you're  here?" 

"Isn't  that  son  of  hers  done  for?'*  he  de- 
manded, searching  my  face  in  terror  of  what 
I  would  say.  "She  stuck  to  him  only  for 
what  she  hoped  he  was,  didn't  she?  Wished 
him  no  chance  to  change?  Insisted  on  his 
keeping  the  low  level  she'd  borne  him  to? 
Pathetic  of  her — for  her.  But  what  else 
could  he  do  in  the  circumstances?" 

What  if  the  structure  of  his  progress  had, 
as  he  reasoned,  been  at  stake?  The  very 
fact  of  his  transformation  implied  some 
mystery.  Was  the  offered  solution  any  more 
mysterious?  But  couldn't  he,  I  tried  to  cal- 
culate, have  become  this  eminent  warrior — 
only  twenty -one  or  two  years  old,  notwith- 
standing his  army  age — right  in  the  face  and 
eyes  of  old  traditions?  Or,  even  as  far  away 
from  them  as  his  first  glimpse  of  the  trenches 
got  him?  For  there  he  wrote  those  driveling 
letters,  one  mustn't  forget,  still  in  touch  and 
in  tune  with  his  squalor. 

"He  hadn't  the  spirit  to  cope  with  his 
prison,"  answered  the  major,  as  if  reading 
my  calculations.  " '  A  heavy  weight  of  hours 

296 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

.  .  .  chained  and  bowed*  him.  That  small 
town  where  he'd  been  born  and  bred,  with 
its  fettering  pettiness,  blighted  him — where 
if  he  even  sought  an  unfrequented  side  of  the 
street  for  a  bit  of  freedom,  somebody'd  jeer, 
'Why  don't  you  walk  on  this  side,  Ted?' — 
till  he'd  cross  meekly  over.  The  blight  of  it 
pursued  him  afield.  He  couldn't  pretend 
anywhere.  He  was  conquered,  subjected  at 
heart  in  his  old  shell  always." 

My  memory  embellishes  somewhat,  no 
doubt;  for  I  flung  at  whatever  he  said 
something  like  this: 

"Now  that  you've  emerged,  it's  easy  to 
cope  with,  though.  Nothing's  at  stake  now. 
You  can  cope  with  anything.  Keep  it  at  a 
distance,  perhaps — don't  let  it  engulf  you — 
but  don't  funk  it  altogether.  That's  the 
way,  isn't  it?" 

"But  the  new  way  was  irresistibly  at  hand. 
For  he'd  tasted  the  secret  of  why  men 
fight,  d'you  see?  And  he  chose." 

His  quixotic  arguments  sank  deeper  into 
my  reflections.  "The  new  way,"  he'd 
pointed  out,  "was  irresistibly  at  hand." 
What  so  illogical  in  that  he'd  fitted  it,  then, 
to  his  own  individual  cause  against  the  bar- 
barism of  the  lot  he'd  been  born  into? 

297 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

(Jntrue,  unfaithful  to  the  squalor  of  his  old 
life,  he  took  that  defiant  leap  in  the  dark  to 
where  nobody  could  hold  him  down  or  pledge 
him  to  what  he  was  not.  Not  until  so  he 
began,  did  he  begin  to  help  the  rest  of  the 
world  to  a  victory  that — like  his  own — 
should  free  it  from  bondage.  It  was  an 
apotheosis  of  his  plan  indubitably.  As  for  the 
rest,  I  was  still  in  doubt,  and  rather  inclined 
to  patronize  his  stupidity. 

But  suspend  your  judgment,  anyway,  to 
the  last  fall  of  the  curtain.  I've  warned  you, 
remember — I,  alone,  except  McCoy  of  Loch 
Louie,  who  knew  all  there  was  to  know.  I 
can  hardly  bear  to  tell  it,  impatient  as  I  am 
to  scatter  the  beauty  of  it  broadcast. 

I  didn't  see  him  again  before  he  left  for 
Texas,  and  a  month  or  two  hence  he  was 
called  to  England,  and  I  got  only  a  telegram 
announcing  his  sudden  censored  departure. 
I  unworthily  wished,  I  confess,  that  it  had 
been  a  letter  instead.  One  who  had  had 
correspondence  from  his  old  self  couldn't 
help  wondering  what  sort  of  letter  his  new 
incarnation  would  write. 

I  got  over  in  the  course  of  things.  We  all 
did,  despite  our  misgivings,  except  those  of 
us  who  were  lame  and  halt  and — worse  than 

298 


HIS  NEW   MORTAL  COIL 

both — old.  I  was  old,  but  I  managed  it,  as 
we  all  could,  sooner  or  later. 

I  was  at  a  London  club.  Everything  ap- 
peared as  far  as  could  be  from  the  theme  of 
my  thoughts  when  I  broached  the  subject. 
I  had  supposed,  of  course,  that  I  should,  here 
or  there,  after  searching,  let  fall  upon  an 
attentive  ear;  but  not  there.  I  just  incon- 
tinently ' '  tried  it  on. ' '  So  appreciate,  please, 
my  surprise  when  I  found  I  had  stumbled  on 
exactly  what  they  were  all,  owing  to  my 
being  a  foreigner,  steering  clear  of. 

"A  member  here,"  said  one,  with  a  shrewd 
look  at  the  others;  and  that  started  us. 

But  I  won't  dissemble.  He — my  major — 
was  the  talk  of  the  town.  Everybody  was 
seething  over  the  denouement.  Not  because 
they  bore  him  any  grudge — as  far  from  that 
as  you  wish.  Only  because  it  made  him 
more  spectacularly  marvelous. 

He  was  married — I  assimilated  that  fact 
readily.  But  he'd  turned  out  not  to  be  a 
Britisher.  "What  do  you  think  of  that?" 
I  thought ;  it  made  the  drops  bead  out  on  my 
forehead. 

Some  girl  or  other,  who  was  "er — er — bred 
in  the  same  province"  as  himself,  had  come 
over  and  sued  the  daughter  of  Sir  Lionel 

299 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Brent,  for  alienation  of  his  affections.  He 
had  a  mother,  too,  of  sorts,  who  hadn't,  how- 
ever, it  was  rumored,  had  the  money  to  come 
herself  to  testify,  but  who  had  forwarded 
affidavits  and  depositions  that  helped  on  the 
proceedings.  But  the  suit  had  been  ably 
defended.  The  jury  had  returned  a  quick 
finding — "Less  than  a  week  since,  wasn't 
it?" — against  the  plaintiff. 

"He  had  to  appear  in  court?"  I  gasped. 

Oh  no;  didn't  have  to,  but  did — was  given 
time  expressly  to  do  so.  Told  the  whole 
truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  beauti- 
fully. It  had  made  him  the  fashionable 
lion  of  the  hour — everybody'd  tried  in  vain 
to  get  hold  of  him  before  he  went  back  to 
France.  That's  how  London  still  rewarded 
entertainment. 

But  nobody  seemed  to  understand  my 
worry.  Why?  They  had  sent  at  once  their 
congratulatory  resolutions,  which  were  ac- 
knowledged by  his  wife  duly.  She  who  was 
radiant  in  her  vindication!  (I  can't  bring 
myself  to  go  more  into  her  part  of  it.)  Every- 
thing was  better  for  him  than  ever,  they  as- 
sured me.  There  would  be  great  occasions 
on  his  next  leave. 

Naturally,  though,  I  didn't  intend  to  wait 

300 


HIS  NEW  MORTAL   COIL 

for  that.  I  intended  to  go  straight  to  him — 
as  straight  as  the  authorities  would  permit. 
I  was  even  on  my  way  when  the  newswomen 
were  shouting:  "McElroy  Brought  Down — 
McElroy  Brought  Down — McElroy  Brought 
Down.  .  .  ." 

I  read  all  the  papers  said.  They  told  of  a 
duel  in  the  air,  at  so  many  hundreds  or  thou- 
sands of  feet,  which  lasted  for  fully  three 
hours;  and  that  kind  of  thing.  They  pub- 
lished a  picture,  with  an  unmentionable 
name,  of  him  who  had  accomplished  the 
astounding  feat.  I  marked  those  specious 
emblems  on  the  breast.  I  studied  the  big 
bland  countenance  well.  But  did  I  discern 
any  mastery  there?  Or  believe  a  single 
egregious  word?  Hadn't  I  heard  tell  also  of 
the  strategy  of  the  Somme  retreat?  Of  the 
overthrow  of  Verdun?  And  the  Jutland 
vainglory?  I  didn't  know  first  hand  about 
those,  perhaps,  but  I  did  about  this.  It  was 
too  close  to  me.  The  victim  of  this  plausible 
tale  was  not  a  "four-flusher."  That  was  all 
the  defeat  there  was  to  it. 

And  I  doubt  if,  even  could  McCoy  of  Loch 
Louie  have  been  true  to  his  promise  and 
found  him  a  grandfather,  that  would  have 

301 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

saved  him.  It  was  no  mere  gap  that  patch- 
work could  fill.  The  stuff  of  his  dreams  had 
been  demolished,  his  cherished  plan  betrayed 
irretrievably.  Never  again  could  he  have 
donned  that  superlative  presence  and  looked 
out  of  those  grave,  cheerful  eyes — eyes  that 
reflected  not  so  much  the  horrors  of  war  as 
the  difficulties  of  winning  it — and  said, 
"One  or  the  other;  I  couldn't  be  both — 
worse  luck — d'you  see?"  till  the  sight  and 
sound  should  have  captured  you.  He  was  a 
victim  who  wanted  to  be  shot  down. 

In  my  memory,  be  it  ever  so  negligible, 
he  keeps  the  society  he  merits.  There  at 
last  he  holds  fete  with  "the  great  Achilles 
whom  we  knew,"  and  Dante,  and  Napoleon, 
and  "many  more  too  long." 


IX 

HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 


see  only  Newport  whenever  you  come 
back  to  America  must  be  awful.  But 
if  you  can  never  get  back  except  in  summer — 
I  suppose  you  ought  to  be  thankful  it  isn't 
in  some  worse  place  your  mother's  living; 
for  though  this  isn't  New  York,  it  is,  after  all, 
more  like  the  best  corner  of  New  York  than 
anything  you  can  find  elsewhere  in  America, 
isn't  it?" 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this  charac- 
teristic analysis  of  my  situation,  Mrs.  Pantell 
leaned  a  little  on  her  parasol  and  waited.  I 
had  strolled  into  the  Casino  before  going  to 
Bailey's,  and,  it  being  my  first  morning,  I  was 
too  out  of  tune  with  her  well-trained  empty 
point  of  view  to  think  up  any  reply.  So  I 
just  gazed  at  her — at  her  rotund  well-pre- 
servedness,  her  foreign  clothes,  the  fixed 

303 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

pubescence  of  her  lips — then  away  from  her, 
past  the  band-stand,  down  along  to  where  a 
younger  woman,  every  whit  as  indigenous 
and  decidedly  more  decorative,  was  measur- 
edly  approaching.  Already  I  espied  the  new- 
comer's smile  of  recognition. 

"I  declare!"  I  murmured  to  Mrs.  Pantell. 

"What?"  she  asked,  sweetly;  but  for 
answer  she  had  only  my  quick  bound  across 
the  gap  that  separated  her  from  the  new 
object  of  my  interest. 

"You,  you!  Molly  Weston!"  I  cried. 

"I  believed,"  she  almost  whispered  it, 
"you  were  in  China." 

"But  it's  wonderful  luck  for  us  to  meet 
like  this! —  Whom  are  you  staying  with?" 

Even  as  I  asked  the  question  I  realized 
that  the  implications  of  it,  being  so  warranted 
by  Molly's  habits,  might  seem  a  bit  pointed. 
But  she  never  quavered,  meeting  my  look 
with  calm,  level  eyes  as  she  answered :  "Why, 
we  have  that  little  old  house  of  the  Barneys' 
this  summer — don't  you  know?  On  the 
cliffs,  near  the  end  of  Narragansett  Avenue?" 

Her  tone  nowise  corrected  mine;  only  the 
words,  which,  as  if  with  a  deliberate  accuracy 
she  picked  out  for  me,  were  reproving;  and 
her  appearance  certainly  drove  them  home. 

304 


HOW  THE  SHIP   CAME   IN 

I  stood  there  trying  to  imagine  what  mone- 
tary change  had  come  into  her  life. 

"And  is  Mr.  Weston — is  'Jimmy*  here 
with  you?"  my  memory  of  his  general  in- 
eptness  prompted  me  to  inquire. 

"Not  often.  He  can't  get  away  much 
yet.  There's  lots  happening  just  now — the 
market  unusually  treacherous,  you  know. 
But  soon — perhaps." 

Gracious !  how  she  could  insist  on  her  hus- 
band's importance!  There  wasn't  a  shade 
of  her  trying  to,  too  particularly,  either. 
She  looked  at  me  with  apparent  directness  as 
if  to  say:  "Well,  we  can't  on  such  short 
notice  begin  talking  together  again  so  in- 
timately and  so  charmingly  as  we  sometimes 
have — right  here,  in  this  sultry  tennis  pavil- 
ion, can  we?  We  can  only  touch  now  on  a  few 
accidental  commonplaces  to  explain  our  being 
here.  Are  there  any  others  I  can  tell  you?" 

Indeed  there  were  a  good  many,  but  I 
couldn't  ask  her  for  them.  .  .  .  Her  hat, 
emphatically  new,  expensive,  and  oh,  so 
becoming,  effaced  at  least  five  years  of  the 
burden  time  had  to  my  memory  settled  upon 
her.  She  didn't  look  more  than  thirty-three. 
The  lace  fichu  that  gave  the  familiar  note  to 
her  magnificence  (somehow  she  had  always 

305 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

preserved  a  touch  of  the  simple,  as  if  for  the 
sake  of  an  old  ideal)  was  convincingly  fine 
and  genuine.  She  was  almost  romantically 
well  got  out.  Her  very  texture  indicated 
mysteries  of  rare  workmanship.  But  it  was 
the  freshness  of  everything  that  was  so  in 
contrast  to  the  borrowed  splendors  in  which 
up  to  now  I  had  seen  her  shine. 

Though  I  had  never,  in  those  years,  posi- 
tively known  where  she  got  her  clothes,  it 
had  always  been  made  frankly  clear  that 
they  were  given  to  her.  Not  by  any  one 
person,  either;  she  had  had  too  big  a  variety 
of  kinds  for  that.  Enough  things  were  al- 
ways being  cast  off  by  one  friend  or  anoth- 
er to  keep  her  handsomely  dressed.  Never 
dowdyish  things.  They  were  all  sure  to  have 
come  from  places  at  least  as  good  as  Worth's 
or  Paquin's.  Only  they  had  often  showed  a 
trifle  shop-worn  or  a  dash  inappropriate. 
Ball  dresses  had  been  made  over  for  the 
afternoon — a  good  many  had  had  to  be  con- 
verted into  tea-gowns,  the  spurious  drapiness 
of  which  I  so  vividly  recalled.  Lovely  and 
lavish  as  these  beggar's  rags  may  have  been, 
they  had  never  perfectly  suited  her;  she 
could  never  somehow  make  them  look  the 
inevitable  designs  she  longed  for.  ...  I  real- 

306 


HOW  THE  SHIP   CAME   IN 

ized,  as  I  continued  to  inspect  the  perfectness 
of  her  newest  incarnation,  how  much,  all  the 
time,  she  must  have  cared. 

But  the  beginning  of  her  caring,  I  reflected, 
dated  no  farther  back  than  her  marriage; 
before  that  she  was  too  much  absorbed  in 
things  she  called  "worth  while"  to  regard 
the  liveries  of  life.  In  those  vigorous  days, 
while  her  parents  were  proudly,  impecuni- 
ously  offering  their  name  for  dower  enough 
to  attract  some  eligible  suitor,  Molly  made 
up  her  mind  to  go  to  college.  Once  there, 
she  still  further  blasted  family  hopes  by 
deciding  on  architecture  as  a  profession,  to 
obtain  training  for  which  she  had  taught  in 
Mrs.  Beedle's  embroidery  school.  As  soon 
as  ever  she  had  got  a  sheepskin  with  highest 
honors,  and  with  some  prospects  of  prac- 
tising, Jimmy  Weston  came  along  and 
married  her. 

It  was  easy  to  see  why  her  name  (not 
scorned,  either,  by  richer  applicants)  should 
have  attracted  him,  and  why  her  unique 
position  as  the  Intellectual  of  a  fashionable 
circle  should  have  made  the  possession  of  her 
seem  a  valuable  asset  in  obtaining  his  own 
place  among  them.  There  is  no  doubt, 
moreover,  that  the  role  of  courting  a  brilliant 

307 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

woman  appealed  to  him;  he  shammed  brill- 
iancy the  same  as  he  shammed  friendship 
and  integrity  and  the  code  of  honor.  How 
he  ever  persuaded  her  to  marry  him  will  re- 
main a  subject  for  speculation.  It  is  said 
romance  can  topple  the  strongest  minds  to 
ruin,  and  people  have  told  me  that  if  it  was 
only  romance  Molly  was  looking  for,  Jimmy 
Weston  did  veritably  have  it  head  and  shoul- 
ders over  the  rest  of  us.  At  any  rate,  she 
married  him — to  the  derision  of  her  friends 
and  the  despair  of  her  parents,  both  of  whom 
promptly  died  and  left  their  debts  post- 
humously to  mock  her  choice. 

Molly  took  him  straight  West  and  gave 
him  free  rein  to  exercise  his  talents — Heaven 
knows  what  they  were !  He  had  just  barely 
got  his  degree  from  Harvard.  ...  I  under- 
stand he  worked  as  head  waiter  in  a  high- 
class  Seattle  hotel  for  one  year;  I've  heard, 
too,  that  Molly  supported  them  a  long  time 
giving  lessons  in  setting  dinner-tables  and 
answering  invitations.  Poor  dear,  she  had 
to.  Until  the  atmosphere,  both  climatic  and 
social,  began  to  disagree  with  Jimmy,  so 
that  after  five  years  they  came  back  again. 

Nobody  knew  the  source  of  the  annual  two 
thousand  that  began  then  to  flow  into  their 

308 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

coffers,  nor  how  out  of  it  they  eked  enough  to 
keep  him  a  poor  little  office  in  the  top  of  the 
old  Exchange  Building,  to  say  nothing  of 
how — although  they  had  only  a  hall  room 
with  a  folding-bed  in  it  and  "went  out"  all 
the  time — they  managed  to  live.  But  they 
did  it  gaily.  I  suppose  that  poor  girl  worked 
her  fingers  off  getting  them  invitations; 
notwithstanding  her  recognized  charm,  they 
couldn't  have  popped  up  in  so  many  places 
if  she  hadn't  taken  unusual  pains.  Every- 
body liked  her,  but  in  New  York  that 
wouldn't  have  been  enough  to  keep  them  so 
continuously  in  the  swim.  Why,  at  one 
time  they  could  not  be  reached  by  telephone 
except  through  the  janitor  of  the  West 
Fortieth  Street  house  where  they  lodged. 
Personally  I  believe  Jim  used  to  sit  down 
there  with  him  so  they  wouldn't  miss  a  dinner 
or  an  opera  or  a  ball  that  might  be  coming 
Molly's  way.  Aside  from  the  financial  end 
of  it  he  was  abnormally  keen  to  go  every- 
where; and  she — well,  she  became  infected, 
lost  in  his  enthusiasm.  If  it  hadn't  been  so 
she  would  have  moved  'way  up  to  the  Bronx, 
away  from  all  the  glitter,  and  there  com- 
fortably maintained  the  ideals  she  was  born 
to  love.  Poor  Molly. 

309 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

A  year  after  they  came  back  to  New  York 
I  got  my  post,  so  I  had  met  them  since  only 
at  Newport.  She  was  there  the  best  part  of 
each  season.  Some  squalid  job — perhaps  it 
had  an  actual  bearing  on  their  two-thousand- 
dollar  income — kept  Jim  in  the  city  about 
half  the  time;  but  she  always  had  to  be  on 
hand  visiting  and  wedging  a  place  open  for 
him  against  the  time  when  he  was  ready  to 
come.  Even  in  the  most  crowded  part  of 
the  summer  they  would  be  enrolled  among 
the  guests  of  what  Jim  considered  the  most 
desirable  house.  Their  presence  coincided 
with  every  grand  duke's  arrival,  they  were 
inevitable  elements  wherever  a  pundit  en- 
sconced himself  for  a  view  of  our  showiest 
watering-place.  They  had  trained  them- 
selves in  bridge  and  dancing  and  tennis  and 
golf.  How  Molly  could — but  then,  one  had 
ceased  to  wonder  how  she  had  let  herself 
become  so  horribly  proficient  in  any  of  it. 
They  were  accepted  on  their  own  terms. 
Everybody  knew,  everybody  laughed,  every- 
body minded.  Hostesses  were  irked  having 
to  have  them,  but  they  had  them  none  the 
less. 

This  was  the  general  reminiscential  picture 
that  floated  through  my  mind  while  I  stood 

310 


HOW  THE  SHIP   CAME   IN 

there  confronting  Mrs.  Weston  on  the  first 
morning  of  my  return  to  Newport  —  the 
picture  into  which  she  didn't,  with  all  her 
freshly  acquired  grandeur,  continue  to  fit. 
What  had  happened  to  her?  In  the  awk- 
wardness of  my  wonderings  I  remembered 
she  had  once  been  on  the  point  of  taking  up 
"interior  decorating" — it  was  so  lucrative 
to  so  many  women  nowadays — and  the  pos- 
sibility loomed  reassuringly  before  me  like 
the  ghost  of  girlhood  ambitions. 

"Oh  no,"  she  sighed,  in  answer  to  my 
question,  "I  fear  now  I  shall  never  have 
time  for  it."  And  she  boldly  shook  off  any 
consciousness  of  my  quandary  by  saying: 
"Tell  me  about  yourself.  Shall  you  be 
here  all  summer?" 

"Off  and  on.     And  how  long  shall  you?" 

"Until  September.  We  go  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks  then.  Perhaps — but  I  suppose  noth- 
ing could  induce  you  to  try  it."  She  moved 
her  eyes  searchingly  over  my  face,  as  if  I  was 
the  one  more  to  be  explained.  "Whom  are 
you  staying  with — with  Mrs.  Pantell?"  she 
asked. 

And  when  I  told  her  she  professed  to  be 
surprised  that  my  mother  was  there — she 
had  heard  she  wasn't. 

21  311 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"Mrs.  Pantell  is  annoyed,"  she  at  last 
brought  out,  "to  be  kept  waiting.  Come  see 
me  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  I  must 
go  back  now  and  find  Mrs.  Bassett."  At 
which  she  faced  about  and  departed. 

I  suppose  Mrs.  Pantell  was  annoyed,  but 
she  was  still  standing  there  alone,  looking 
into  space  with  the  air  of  just  having  had  an 
enjoyable  tete-a-tete;  and  I  was  really  eager 
now  to  have  one  with  her. 

"Whom,"  I  immediately  asked  her,  "is 
Molly  Weston  staying  with?" 

"With  Mrs.  Bassett — you  goose!" 

"But—" 

"You  find  her  changed,  do  you?  You're 
perfectly  right,  she  is  changed — as  changed 
as  Cinderella.  O  tempora,  O  mores!" 

"Explain  it  to  me,  then.  Put  me  on!"  I 
pleaded. 

As  we  strolled  forward  toward  the  Casino 
gateway  Sam  Loring  paused  from  his  quick 
dash  in  the  other  direction  to  speak  to  her. 
"That,"  Mrs.  Pantell  said,  after  he  had  left 
us  alone  again,  "is  a  part  of  the  explanation." 
And  she  stepped  discreetly  in  front  of  me, 
digging  her  parasol  into  the  gravel.  "He 
has  been  abroad  with  Mrs.  Bassett;  and 
Molly — do  you  understand? — has  chaper- 

312 


HOW  THE  SHIP   CAME   IN 

oned  them.  But  hasn't  it  improved  her? 
My  dear,  Mrs.  Bassett  must  have  turned 
her  pocketbook  inside  out  for  her.  They're 
just  back.  We're  all  agog  to  see  what  it's 
done  to  Jim — confound  him! — who's  been 
with  them  a  part  of  the  time.  .  .  .  Dear  me, 
it's  spotting  a  little,"  discerned  Mrs.  Pantell 
as  a  few  globular  drops  of  rain  struck  us. 
And  she  very  kindly  offered  to  give  me  a 
lift  home. 

"I  haven't  seen  Molly,  until  Tuesday  at 
least,"  she  went  on,  "since,  since  .  .  ."  (and 
she  continued  heatedly  to  pronounce  that 
monosyllable  while  we  were  finding  her 
motor  and  installing  ourselves  in  it)  "since — 
since  she  was  here  last  September.  They 
stayed  on  with  me — don't  you  remember? — 
a  whole  month  after  tennis  week.  At 
that  time—" 

"She  was  different,  you  mean  then?"  I 
asked,  impatient  of  her  hesitation. 

"She  was  destitute!"  Mrs.  Pantell  de- 
clared, firmly.  "She  was  at  the  end — well — 
of  everything.  I  gave  her  all  the  clothes  / 
could  possibly  spare  off  my  own  back — it  was 
the  best  I  could  do — and  sent  out  letters 
asking  for  more.  Of  course  she  did  win  an 
occasional  hundred  at  bridge,  but  I'm  sure 

313 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

Jim  more  than  made  up  for  it  by  his  losses. 
It  was  said  two  or  three  people  gave  her 
money  for  her  and  Jim's  railroad  tickets 
to  come  down  here — the  same  round  trip, 
I  mean — which,  even  if  she  did  get  it, 
couldn't  have  been  much  of  a  help,  now 
could  it?  ... 

"She  was  usually  waiting  by  my  bedroom 
door  for  me  to  wake  so  she  could  use  the  tele- 
phone. There's  only  that  one  besides  the 
butler's  in  the  house,  you  see — " 

"Economies  of  the  rich!"  I  exclaimed. 

At  that  Mrs.  Pantell  looked  at  me  be- 
wilderedly  a  moment,  and  lost  all  idea  of 
what  she  was  saying;  then  presently  chuck- 
led afresh  at  new  recollections.  "I  shall 
never  forget  about  that  ham.  You  know 
Larry  Nolen?  Well,  he  was  forever  going 
to  all  sorts  of  trouble  to  help  Molly.  One 
day  when  some  of  us  women  were  discussing 
food  for  a  picnic  at  Vaucluse — the  picnic 
Lady  Washton  had  insisted  on  our  having 
— Molly  suddenly  suggested  that  each  one  of 
us  should  furnish  some  huge  piece  of  meat 
for  it.  /  thought  she  was  '  putting  one  over* 
on  my  cook;  everybody  did.  But  not  at 
all.  Molly  was  up  early  next  day,  waiting 
near  my  barred  threshold  to  use  the  tele- 

314 


HOW  THE  SHIP   CAME   IN 

phone,  and  oh  what  artful  ways  she  had  to 
lure  Larry  into  furnishing  that  ham!  She 
finally  went  so  far  as  to  promise  him" — Mrs. 
Pantell's  eyes  gleamed — "that  if  he  would 
take  extra  pains  with  it  she  might  perhaps 
— somehow  or  other — try  to  have  him  asked 
to  the  picnic.  Fancy!  .  .  .  Naturally 
Larry — the  kind  he  is — was  all  for  that. 
Suffice  it  to  say  Larry's  ham  was  delicious. 
Only — on  the  morning  of  the  picnic  I  heard 
Molly  telephoning  him  how  very  sorry  she 
was  no  men  were  being  invited!  Think  of 
her  daring  to  invent  it !  ...  Now  come  to  see 
me  soon,  won't  you?"  With  which  question 
she  left  me  dumfounded  at  my  mother's 
door. 

II 

But  I  couldn't  so  easily  put  Molly's  case 
out  of  mind,  and  three  days  hence  I  decided 
to  have  tea  with  her  if  she  was  at  home. 
I  looked  for  Mrs.  Bassett  in  the  telephone 
directory,  but  nobody  by  that  name — except 
a  harness-maker  who  lived  on  Thames 
Street — had  a  telephone.  When  Informa- 
tion failed  to  give  me  a  clue  I  asked  my 
mother's  old  James  to  take  round  a  note, 
with  the  result  that  Molly  sent  back  word 

315 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

she  was  having  a  party  and  wouldn't  I  come 
instead  the  next  day? 

I  shall  never  forget  how  the  elaborateness 
of  my  reception  depressed  me.  Jimmy  had 
probably  chosen  this  particular  house  as 
being  the  one  which  for  situation  and  large- 
ness— the  number  of  its  bath-rooms  taken 
into  consideration — would  afford  the  pleas- 
antest  available  visiting  place.  And  Molly 
had  called  it  that  "little  old  cottage  of  the 
Barneys' " !  It  simply  showed  how  low  she 
had  sunk. 

Of  course  I  asked  for  Mrs.  Bassett,  too, 
but  the  man  who  took  my  hat,  and  the  other 
one  who  conducted  me  forward  through  the 
breeze-swept  hall,  simply  answered  that 
"Mrs.  Weston"  was  expecting  me.  There 
was  the  bald  look  everywhere  of  her  having 
the  run  of  the  house.  And  when  I  at  last 
passed  through  a  designated  doorway  I  came 
straight  upon  Jimmy  himself,  prone  upon  a 
large,  heavily  upholstered  sofa,  from  which 
he  had  disgustedly  flung  two  superfluous 
cushions,  a  table  of  drinks  at  his  side. 

"Old  fellow,"  he  cried,  "I'm  so  glad— so 
very,  very  glad  to  see  you.  Molly's  been 
lying  down — dear  little  cat"  (he  faked  even 
in  calling  her  "dear  little  cat"),  "she's  been 

316 


HOW  THE  SHIP   CAME   IN 

doir  g  too  much.  Going  like  mad  every 
minute. — Welcome  home  again!  And  what 
do  you  think  of  our  mid-Victorian  hostelry, 
eh?  1 :  suits  her — every  button  of  it.  What  '11 
you  lave  to  drink — Scotch?  Cigarettes? 
What-  -you  haven't  sworn  off?" 

How  vivaciously,  how  glibly,  how  twitch- 
ily — for  he  accompanied  what  he  said  by 
stepping  ,up  and  down  and  touching  things 
and  moviig  them — he  could  dispense  the 
hospitality  he  had  appropriated.  He  was 
so  delicately,  nervously  second-rate.  Quite 
aside  from  ali  the  horrors  of  his  arch  cunning, 
it  was  a  mystery  how  Molly  could  bear  him. 

But  she  entered  with  his  name  on  her  lips, 
saying,  serenely:  "It's  so  nice  Jim  could 
come  down.  He  wrote  straight  away  that 
he  particularly  wanted  to  see  you." 

He  talked  of  shooting — asked,  for  example, 
if  I  shot  "  fifth  or  seventh" ;  said  he'd  hunted 
in  Derbyshire  until  he  knew  "every  field, 
every  cover,  every  jump."  He  reeled  forth 
the  cant  lingo  of  his  pretensions.  Molly 
seemed  indulgent,  as  if  she  wished  most  of  all 
to  have  him  shine;  until,  when  finally  he  fell 
into  an  esthetic  vein  and  remarked  "how 
well,  how  very  well  Bulfinch  had  done  the 
Metropolitan  Museum,  hadn't  he?"  she  did 

317 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

mildly  correct  him.  At  that  he  said  he'd 
recently  had  an  attack  of  neuritis,  and  left 
us  alone — which  was  his  characteristic  way 
of  meeting  reproval. 

I  asked  Molly  at  once  for  Mrs.  Fassett. 
She  opened  her  eyes  in  unveiled  ?  .tonish- 
ment.  "Why,  do  you  know  he/?"  she 
exclaimed;  and  then  as  if  sudderiy  recol- 
lecting it,  "She  left  us  last  Thursaay." 

I  stared  at  her.  It  was  as  staggering  to 
think  that  Molly  Weston  cared  to  sit  there 
in  the  lap  of  Mrs.  Bassett's  luxu  .y ,  practising 
such  attenuated  deceptions  about  her  posi- 
tion, as  it  was  that  she  dared  skate  on  a  sur- 
face so  thin  I  could  have  punctured  it  with 
one  unfriendly  stab.  "  Did  you  like  traveling 
with  her?"  I  couldn't  '.lelp  commenting. 

"Traveling?"  The  word  sent  her  round 
gray  eyes  traveling  over  me  from  head  to 
foot.  "You  see  we  didn't,  after  all,  travel 
with  her — I  didn't,  I  mean.  I  only  crossed 
the  ocean  with  her.  How  did  you  get  wind 
of  it,  I  wonder!" 

"Mrs.  Pantell  told  me." 

"She's  like  all  the  rest  here — devoted  as  I 
am,"  Molly  sighed.  "But  I  really  do  enjoy 
the  beauty  of  Newport.  It  agrees  with 
Jimmy,  too — though  he  always  used  to  say, 

318 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

before  we  were  married,  he  couldn't  stand  it. 
Jim's  moods  are  peculiar." 

I  had  been  through  acres  of  her  "Jim" 
talk.  "You  mean  to  say  then,"  I  put  to  her, 
"that  you  and  Mrs.  Bassett  haven't  been — 
never  have  traveled  together?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Mrs.  Bassett's  a 
dear,"  she  just  exclaimed. 

I  wanted  to  tell  Molly  that  her  own  be- 
decked appearance  confirmed  that  fact.  But 
instead  I  drank  in  once  again  the  perfect 
array  of  Mrs.  Bassett's  generosity.  ...  I  re- 
membered talks  Molly  and  I  used  to  have 
long  ago  that  had  shown  me  how  she  felt 
then  on  the  subject  of  always  "living  on 
others."  Not  that  she  ever  admitted  to 
have  done  it  or  to  have  thought  of  it  so  vul- 
garly as  that;  but  she  had  often  signified 
how  much  she  hoped  Jim  would  some  day 
make  heaps  of  money  so  she  could  pay  back 
the  millions  of  favors  she  owed  people  (some 
awfully  poor  sorts  of  people,  too).  Oh,  she 
had  had  every  kind  of  lofty  ideal.  She  had 
had,  above  everything,  so  confident  a  sense 
of  values  that  she  had  been  too  sure  of  pre- 
serving it  through  the  thick  and  thin  of 
adversity;  she  had  thought  herself  proof 
against  the  devastating  effects  of  continu- 

319 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

ally  yielding  to  the  temptation  (for  Jim's 
sake)  to  use  any  sort  of  demoralizing  make- 
shift. But  she  had  yielded  too  often,  I 
perceived ;  she  had  lost  her  sense  of  propor- 
tion; she  no  longer  realized  what  manner  of 
life  they  led.  If  I  challenged  her  on  the 
subject  of  her  happiness,  she  met  my  chal- 
lenge with  apparent  openness,  intimating 
that  she  was  contented  to  the  core. 

Her  manner  was  as  direct,  her  attention  as 
keen,  as  ever;  and  when  our  talk  had  drifted 
away  from  what  concerned  herself — back 
over  old  grounds  of  mutual  enthusiasm — 
each  point  she  touched  was  dealt  with  wisely, 
with  few  of  the  reserves  and  narrownesses 
that  hamper  most  women.  The  clarity  of 
her  perceptions  surprised  me;  she  could  still 
hold  out  for  me  a  vision  of  rare  good  stand- 
ards— standards  she  still  referred  to  without 
a  hitch.  And  her  charm  began  to  recapture 
me.  The  lines  had  not  changed  her  face; 
that  pale,  healthy  skin  was  still  tightly 
drawn  over  its  lovely  modeling. 

"You  will  never  grow  old,  Molly,"  I  told 
her  on  taking  my  leave. 

"  Not  right  away — if  you  come  to  see  me 
soon  again,"  she  smiled. 

For  that,  however,  there  was  to  be  no  im- 

320 


HOW  THE  SHIP   CAME  IN 

mediate  opportunity;  I  was  called  suddenly 
to  Washington  and  detained  there  through 
most  of  the  summer.  All  that  I  learned  of 
Molly  meanwhile  was  contained  in  this  item 
I  chanced  to  see  among  the  Newport  Notes 
of  the  New  York  Times.  .  .  .  "Mr.  and  Mrs. 
James  Weston  are  staying  with  Mrs.  Pearl- 
Livermore  during  tennis  week.  ..."  Who  in 
the  world  was  "Mrs.  Pearl-Li vermore"? 
I,  at  least,  had  never  heard  tell  of  her. 

But  I  saw  Molly  one  day  alter  my  return 
at  the  very  end  of  August.  I  first  caught 
sight  of  her  while,  strangely  enough,  she 
was  swimming  with  some  people  from  the 
raft  to  the  beach,  and  while  I  was  swim- 
ming out  in  the  opposite  direction,  too 
far  away  for  her  to  hear  my  hulloa.  The 
moment  I  came  up  with  my  companion  (a 
young  Russian  diplomat — I  forget  his  name) 
I  asked  him  as  casually  as  I  could  whom  Mrs. 
Weston  was  staying  with.  "  Oh,  let  me  see," 
he  answered,  "just  now  I  should  say  she  is 
with  Mrs.  Leach  Robinson" — a  fact  I  had 
occasion  to  recall  half  an  hour  later  when  I 
came  face  to  face  with  Molly  in  front  of  my 
bath-house. 

"  I  wanted  particularly  to  get  hold  of  you," 
she  said.  "  If  you  aren't  too  busy  this  Satur- 

321 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

day  and  Sunday,  won't  you  move  over  and 
spend  them  with  us?  They're  my  last  days 
here — I  do  want  to  see  you  a  little — and  the 
others,  I'm  sure,  will  amuse  you.  So  please." 
I  was  about  to  ask  if  she  thought  my  accept- 
ance would  be  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Leach 
Robinson  when  she  went  on  to  explain: 
"You  know  Grace  Robinson?  She'll  be 
there — and  there's  Katharine  Curtis — the 
Joe  Curtises,  you  remember?" 

I  did  remember  well  enough  all  Molly's  old 
refuges,  but  I  hardly  paid  any  attention  to 
that,  so  completely  was  I  experiencing  the 
spell  of  her  power.  It  was  consummate  act- 
ing. The  subtlety,  too,  of  her  methods — the 
very  way  she  clearly  and  simply  laid  the 
facts  before  me,  her  childlike  eagerness  ex- 
pressed with  just  the  right  rather  sentimental 
pride  she  wanted  to  show  in  this  opportunity 
to  have  me  as  her  guest — all  such  artifices 
disarmed  me.  It  was  done  so  well  I  almost 
forgot  the  lack  of  justification  for  her  doing 
it.  I  can  see  her  now — that  white  hat,  that 
plaited  blue  muslin  dress  (all  ruffles  edged 
with  a  narrow  band  of  lavender) ,  dangling  her 
dog's  leash  and  waiting  for  me  to  speak.  .  .  . 

I  wished  afterward  that  I  hadn't  gone, 
though  Mrs.  Pantell  said  I  would  have  been  a 

322 


HOW  THE  SHIP   CAME  IN 

"goose"  ("goose"  was  always  her  most  des- 
perate epithet  for  me)  not  to  have  sampled 
the  horrors  of  the  visit.  "Was  Jimmy 
there?"  she  pantingly  asked  .  .  .  Jimmy?  I 
tried  to  describe  to  her  the  charlatan  guest 
he  made — with  his  tall,  lithe,  meretricious 
figure,  his  would-be  golden  curls,  his  lined, 
sunburnt,  fatuous  face  —  ordering  motors, 
complaining  of  the  servants  when  he  wasn't 
snubbing  them,  making  light  of  having  some 
expensive  professionals  up  from  New  York 
to  dance  for  an  evening,  talking  speciously 
of  having  had  an  airplane  flight  (which  he 
had  heard  of  somebody  else's  having  had)  at 
Hempstead,  imitating  in  all  sophomoric  ways 
he  could  imagine  a  comfort-ridden  million- 
aire as  he  conceived  him  to  be.  .  .  .  And  to 
think,"  Mrs.  Pantell  exclaimed,  indignantly, 
"that  I  myself  have  stood  for  his  rolling 
with  her  in  such  luxuries!  ..."  I  indicated 
how  Molly — serene,  contemplative,  beauti- 
ful, lucid — had  by  her  elegant  assumptions 
created  an  impression  almost  as  bad. 

"But  here's  something  I  want  you  to  ex- 
plain to  me,"  I  demanded  of  Mrs.  Pantell  at 
the  end:  "How  by  all  that  is  possible  was  it 
that  each  one  of  Molly  Weston's  three  mid- 
summer hostesses — Mrs.  Bassett,  Mrs.  Pearl- 

323 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Livermore,  and  Mrs.  Leach  Robinson — 
should  have  been  there,  all  entertaining  her 
and  Jimmy  and  the  rest  of  us  at  precisely  the 
same  moment?  Not  only  at  the  same  time, 
mind  you,  but  in  the  same  place!  If  it  was 
Mrs.  Bassett  who  took  the  "little  old  Barney 
cottage"  early  in  the  season — at  which  time 
Molly,  as  we  know,  visited  her  there — how  in 
the  name  of  Heaven  is  it  Molly  is  now- 
visiting  Mrs.  Leach  Robinson  in  the  identical 
villa? — to  say  nothing  of  my  having  acci- 
dentally discovered  that  it  was  in  precisely 
that  same  "little  shack"  where  Molly  and 
her  James  have  visited  Mrs.  Pearl-Livermore 
in  between?" 

"You  sum  up  admirably  for  the  prosecu- 
tion!" laughed  Mrs.  Pantell.  "Nobody's 
ever  heard  up  to  now  of  such  a  nightmare  of 
visits  and  hostesses  happening  together — 
quite  aside  from  how  they  were  temporally 
and  spatially  distributed !  But — you've  been 
away,  of  course ;  yet  I  don't  understand  what 
your  eyes  and  your  ears  have  been  doing, 
and  why  your  mind  doesn't  permit  you  to 
grasp  the  facts;  for  facts  can't  be  so  inex- 
plicable as  you  make  them  seem,  now  can 
they?" 

"I  only  tell  you,"  I  argued,  "that  at  least 

324 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME   IN 

some  other  of  the  guests  at  that  week-end 
party  weren't  in  the  least  sure  whom  they 
were  visiting.  I  know  for  certain  that  Mimi 
Blakemore  addressed  her  bread-and-butter 
letter  to  Mrs.  Bassett,  and  that  Rutger 
Brown  wrote  his  to  Mrs*  Pearl-Livermore.  I 
doubt  if  there  was  a  person  there — barring 
me — but  has  received  a  letter  of  thanks  from 
somebody  who  believed  he  or  she  was  the 
host." 

Mrs.  Pantell  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 
"The  truth,"  she  proudly  and  intermittently 
brought  out,  "is  this  way.  Mrs.  Bassett,  as 
I  told  you,  took  Mrs.  Molly  to  Europe. 
She's  a  stranger  in  New  York — I  think 
Molly  met  her  out  West,  and  she  introduced 
Sam  Loring  to  her.  D'you  see?  ...  I  don't 
know  where  Mrs.Pearl-Livermore  comes  in — 
I  think  she  must  be  the  one  who  summers  at 
Southampton  (it's  grown  so,  you  know),  for 
Molly's  been  going  there  off  and  on  when 
there  was  nothing  to  be  had  for  Jim  here. 
Mrs.  Leach  Robinson  you  know;  at  least 
her  connection  with  the  scheme  is  perfectly 
clear — Molly  and  Jim  having  spent  pretty 
near  two  whole  seasons  with  her." 

"What  scheme?  How  do  you  mean 
'scheme'?"  I  echoed. 

325 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"Why — those  three  women,  having  drunk 
deep  of  the  drift  of  things,  got  together  this 
year  and  formed  a  company.  I  don't  say 
they  actually  became  incorporated  with  a 
charter  and  by-laws,  but  the  purpose  of 
their  association  was  as  plain  as  day;  and 
it  was  to  lessen  the  cost  and  the  bother  of 
'having'  the  Jimmy  Westons." 

"  You  mean— " 

"In  other  words,  that  they  syndicated 
Molly — hired  the  'little  old  Barney  cottage' 
and  gave  over  to  her  the  running  of  it,  with 
the  understanding  they  were  to  drop  down  on 
her  for  a  week  or  a  month  or  'most  any  time 
they  wanted  to,  just  the  way  she  and  Jim 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  dropping  down  on 
them.  A  thoroughly  complicated  and  prac- 
tical arrangement,"  concluded  Mrs.  Pant  ell 
as  she  brushed  a  fly  from  her  nose,  "and  like 
most  of  his  wife's  friends'  plans,  Jimmy 
Weston  has  found  it  a  decided  convenience." 


in 

Mrs.  Pantell's  knowledge  of  how  the 
"little  cottage  of  the  Barneys'  "  happened  to 
be  so  handsomely  and  so  variously  occupied 
that  summer  was  shared  by  about  every- 

326 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

body.  Apparently  I  (one  of  the  last  to 
hear  it)  was  the  only  person  old-fashioned 
enough  to  be  either  shocked  or  surprised. 
But  when  I  came  back  to  Newport  the 
next  July,  Molly's  "Syndicate"  was  alto- 
gether lost  sight  of  in  the  light  of  a  fresher 
scandal. 

I  did  not  have  to  meet  Molly  to  find  out 
she  was  there.  I  didn't  have  to  ask  whom 
she  was  visiting.  Indeed,  almost  the  first 
piece  of  news  that  greeted  my  return  was 
that  that  particular  summer  Mrs.  Weston 
was  not  "visiting"  anybody — unless,  per- 
haps, she  could  be  said  to  be  visiting  her 
husband.  For  no  less  a  person  than  Jimmy 
himself  had  taken  Maintenon.  It  was  rented 
in  his  name — there  were  those  who  had  been 
to  Mr.  Mahony,  the  real-estate  agent,  and 
to  whom  said  Mahony  had  literally  shown 
the  lease.  There  could  be  no  equivocation 
about  what  Molly  had  now;  she  had  her 
house,  and  her  servants  and  her  automobiles; 
in  fact,  she  had  everything. 

"Except,"  as  Mrs.  Pantell  wittily  informed 
me  when  the  first  opportunity  presented  it- 
self, "  guests.  Of  these  she  hasn't  had  a  one. 
And  it  isn't,  you  know,  that  she  can't  get 
them,  either.  I  could  name  to  you  six 

22  327 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

women — six  good  women — who  have  boldly 
asked  to  come  and  been  refused." 

"I  suppose,"  I  theorized — dismally,  sadly, 
too,  for  whatever  happened  I  should  always 
be  devoted  to  Molly — "I  suppose  it's  on  ac- 
count of  him." 

"Jimmy?"  Mrs.  Pantell  looked  annoy- 
ingly  like  a  codfish,  a  smart,  big,  canny  old 
codfish,  as  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes  she 
peered  round  at  me  to  detect  how  much  I 
really  knew;  so  ready  was  she  with  infor- 
mation that — low  though  it  was  to  dabble  so 
pettily  in  poor  dear  Molly's  doom — I  couldn't 
help  taking  the  wind  from  her  sails. 

"I  mean,"  I  said,  "Larry  Nolen.  Every- 
body knows  it.  Everybody  knows  that  he 
gives  Molly  the  money." 

"Oh!"  groaned  Mrs.  Pantell,  who  seemed 
visibly  to  shrink  under  the  shock  of  her 
disappointment;  but  it  took  her  only  a 
minute  to  recover  lost  ground.  "That  is 
the  strangest  part  of  it.  It  isn't  Larry 
Nolen  who  keeps  them  away.  Larry  Nolen 
has  never  been  seen  to  enter  the  house.  I 
myself  am  satisfied  he  never  goes  there." 

We  had  met  at  the  Golf  Club,  just  after  I 
had  played  eighteen  holes,  and  my  bath  was 
too  long  overdue.  "I  am  satisfied,"  I  forced 

328 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

myself  to  state  as  I  disgustedly  got  up  to 
leave  her,  "that  the  whole  story,  then,  is 
a  beastly  lie.  It  makes  me  sick  to  talk 
about  it." 

"Let's  talk  of  something  else — by  all 
means,"  Mrs.  Pantell  suggested.  .  .  .  "Have 
you  forgotten  the  ham  Larry  sent  her  for  the 
Vaucluse  picnic?  I  tell  you  it's  a  part  of 
Molly's  wonderful  character  not  to  let  him 
go  ever  to  the  house.  Her  brain  is  as  clear 
as  crystal,  it  works  like — like  an  expensive 
trap.  Brains  she  always  had  in  plenty;  it's 
conscience  she  never  did  have  a  vestige  of." 

"She  has  a  heart,  anyway,"  I  weakly 
retaliated. 

"Ah!" — Mrs.  Pantell  stood  straight  up  to 
emphasize  her  point — "that's  why  she 
never  goes  anywhere,  never  to  a  single  place 
— to  a  dinner,  to  balls,  to  the  beach,  even — 
without  his  going,  too." 

"Jimmy?"  I  threw  back  at  her,  tauntingly. 

"I  mean  Larry  Nolen.  You  see  it,"  she 
cried,  "as  well  as  I." 

Of  course  I  had  seen  it,  and  I  continued, 
alas,  to  see  it  wherever  I  went.  It  was  as  if 
people  had  welcomed  any  change  in  Molly's 
tactics — as  if  they  were  glad  to  condone  her 
fall  in  consideration  of  the  relief  it  had 

329 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

brought  them.  Those  who  had  ignored 
Larry,  had  scorned  his  very  existence,  now 
asked  him  whenever  she  was  coming ;  oftener 
than  not  Molly  and  Larry  were  seated  side 
by  side  at  table. ...  It  was  pathetic  to  watch 
her  with  him ;  she  appeared  to  be  so  surprised 
and  mystified  whenever  he  spoke  to  her,  and 
she  always  tried  to  talk  to  the  man  on  her 
right  as  much  as  possible.  I  would  watch 
her  from  a  distance — her  eyes  roaming  un- 
easily from  face  to  face,  as  if  she  couldn't 
pay  attention  to  either  the  food  or  the  con- 
versation, as  if  she  was  blindly  questioning 
the  reason  for  her  being  there.  That  ingen- 
ious look  of  aloofness,  that  air  of  not  being 
concerned  with  the  situation,  still  seemed  to 
be  her  defense  against  the  world's  opinions; 
but  I  was  sure  it  was  an  easy  line  for  her  to 
take — just  as  I  was  sure  that  the  most  tragic 
element  in  her  awful  existence  was  her 
getting  so  little  enjoyment  for  the  fatal 
price  she  paid.  However  flatteringly  and 
admiringly  she  was  surrounded  (and  people 
couldn't  help  liking  her),  she  wore  the  same 
preoccupied  expression  of  being  absent,  of 
being  above  it  all,  of  worrying  because  she 
was  wasting  her  time.  Though  it  made  you 
pity  her  more,  it  also  made  you  more  con- 

330 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

temptuous  of  her  deliberate  folly.  And 
why?  Why?  For  whom  had  she  done  it? 
Once  when  I  was  asking  myself  this  question 
I  heard  somebody  say:  "Hie — Jimmy  Wes- 
ton?  He's  half-witted,  isn't  he?"  And  the 
old  answer  came,  "If  he  only  knew  just  a 
little  bit  more  I  think  he  would  be." 

Jimmy  met  me  one  day  in  the  reading- 
room.  "Why  don't  you  come  to  see  my 
wife?"  he  asked,  jauntily.  "Dear  little — 
she's  a  strange,  deep  creature.  Doesn't  get 
into  relationship  with  people  very  easily — 
apt  not  to  care  for  'em.  Moody,  like  all 
geniuses  —  particularly  women  —  like — like 
Florence  Nightingale,  for  instance."  (He 
could  make  the  least  relevant  comparisons!) 
"But  she's  really  fond  of  you;  she's  always 
said  so — I've  always  seen  it.  ...  Honor  us, 
dear  fellow,  honor  us!"  And  he  slung  his 
thin  leg  over  the  back  of  a  chair  and  wagged 
it  to  and  fro  as  might  have  become  the  rich 
hero  in  a  poor  novel — stroking  his  pompous 
hair  and  stealing  glances  at  me  from  those 
weak,  restless  eyes. 

What  a  contempt  I  had  for  him!  "It's 
nice  you  can  be  with  her  so  often,"  I  haz- 
arded. "Business  doesn't  keep  you  away 
much  nowadays,  does  it?" 

331. 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

"You  see  we're  new  rich  now/'  he  coun- 
tered, with  a  quixotic  stroke  that  made  me 
for  the  moment  grudgingly  respect  him; 
"it's  the  first  time  in  our  lives — these  last 
two  years — when  we've  done  absolutely 
what  we  wanted." 

He  thought — did  he? — to  work  on  my 
sympathy.  "What  she  wants?"  I  parried 
back — foreseeing  the  wince  with  which  he 
would  meet  it. 

"Oh,  what  she  wants!"  he  brought  out 
again;  "but  nobody  has  ever  been  able  to 
be  sure  what  that  is." 

Preposterous  and  cowardly  as  his  subter- 
fuge was,  I  wondered,  while  I  faced  the  silly 
look  of  triumph  he  gave  me,  if  Molly  mightn't 
have  to  bear  out  the  truth  of  his  every 
invention — if  (the  idea  recurred  to  me  again, 
I  remember,  on  my  way  that  last  time  to  see 
her)  he  didn't  tell  her  everything  he  had  said, 
so  she  could  strive  to  live  up  to  it,  just  as  she 
had  to  live  up  to  so  many  of  his  failings. . . . 

It  was  a  beautiful  August  afternoon.  She 
was  sitting  alone  in  one  of  a  group  of  chairs 
near  the  tennis-court  at  Maintenon,  sketching 
a  huge  bronze  urn,  some  trees,  and  the  sward 
which  so  happily  composed  themselves  into  a 
pleasant  perspective  between  herself  and  the 

332 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

sea.  There  was  a  touching  freedom  in  the 
cordiality  with  which  she  greeted  me. 

"I  haven* t  done  such  a  thing  as  paint," 
she  said,  "since  I  was  a  girl." 

"I  wonder,"  I  mused,  "if  you  will  ever 
finish  it — if  you  will  ever  have  time." 

"I  intended,"  she  assured  me,  "to  have 
nothing  but  time  this  summer." 

And  then  awkwardly  enough  I  expressed 
what  flew  through  my  mind:  "That's  true 
— you  have  been  much  alone.  Nobody's 
staying  with  you,  I  hear." 

She  shook  her  head.  In  silence  we  gazed 
forward  at  the  quiet  blue  stretches  of  water. 

"Jim  and  I  made  a  compact  not  to  let 
any  one.  You  see — last  summer  was  a 
failure  for  us  both.  He  got  no  rest  and  I 
got  no — no  fun ;  and  I  had  to  spend  the  whole 
winter  abroad  on  account  of  it.  In  fact 
there  was  nothing — absolutely  nothing — in 
it  for  either  of  us,  after  all  the  bother." 

The  sad  emphasis  with  which  she  affirmed 
it  was  like  the  drawing  of  a  curtain  for  me 
to  see  the  vista  of  implications  her  words 
held;  it  amounted,  I  thought,  to  her  saying 
quite  plainly  that  she  had  found  it  worse 
being  a  professional  hostess  than  being  a  pro- 
fessional guest — that  she  had  tried  both 

333 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

ways  and  that  both  had  in  the  end  almost 
killed  her.  It  was  as  if  she  rather  wanted 
me  to  see  everything — wanted  at  least  me, 
her  near  old  friend,  to  understand  the 
pressing  sequence  of  events  preceding  the 
pass  she  had  come  to.  Molly,  Molly!  It 
swept  over  me  that,  compared  with  the  awful- 
ness  of  her  present,  all  those  useless,  thorny 
paths  she  had  trodden  were  as  beds  of  roses. 
"  Why  was  it  so  bad?"  I  found  myself  saying. 
"Was  it  only  the  guests  who  made  it  so — 
so  impossible?  Couldn't  you  have  stood  it 
again  with — say,  another  batch?" 

"Why  should  I  have  stood  it?"  she  re- 
torted as  with  feigned  indignation  to  oppose 
my  pity. 

"Why  did  you  stand  it — even  that  once, 
then?"  I  couldn't  help  saying. 

I  felt  her  wavering  over  what  reply  to 
make.  "Well,"  she  said,  "it  was  the  first 
season  we  had  ever  been  able  to  come  here 
with  any  ease  or  comfort — to  take  a  house,  I 
mean.  Jim  wanted  to  try  it.  I,  too,  had 
got  to  the  point  where  I  thought — much  as 
I  hate  the  absurd  life  here — it  would  be  fun 
to  come  just  once  the  way  other  people  do — 
the  ones  we  had  always  had  to  visit." 
(With  what  a  semblance  of  fairness  she  con- 

334 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

ceded  the  frailty  her  misstated  reasons  were 
founded  on!  How  perfectly  she  gave  the 
effect  of  granting,  partly  for  Jim's  sake  and 
partly  because  the  relics  of  her  old  proud 
unashamedness  still  at  times  prompted  her, 
that  she  herself  hadn't  been  wholly  blind  to 
the  paste  glamour  which  had  attracted  him !) 
"So  being  able  at  last  to  do  it,  we  came," 
she  concluded,  smiling  away  my  frown. 

It  was  useless  to  doubt  with  a  word  or  a 
glance  the  fact  that  they  had  at  last  become 
amply  and  sufficiently  "able"  to  do  any- 
thing they  wanted;  admitting  that  premise 
was  like  the  oldest  rule,  now,  of  the  game  she 
insisted  on  playing.  "But  why,  being  so 
able,"  I  pondered,  "to  come,  and  having 
once  tried  it  with  the  result  that,  as  you've 
just  said,  you  got  nothing  out  of  it — why 
did  you  have  to  go  to  the  awful  length — of — 
I  checked  myself — "of  coming  again?" 

"Because  last  year  we  didn't  do  it  right. 
We  had  too  many  people.  Jim  saw  that  that 
was  the  trouble.  And  this  year  when  I  had 
to  come  back,  anyway,  to  America  for  the 
summer  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing 
for  us  to  come  here.  I  like  the  place;  I 
have  always,  you  know,  loved  it.  But  this 
is  the  last  time.  I  wanted — and  Jim  wanted 

335 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

— to  have  a  pleasanter  memory  of  it  to  blot 
out  all  the  other  horrible  ones.  .  .  .  Last  year 
the  number  and  the  incessancy  of  the  guests 
we  had  made  it  seem  literally  like  keeping 
a  boarding-house." 

"And  has  this  summer  been  pleasanter?" 
the  devil  drove  me  to  insinuate. 

"I  can't  quite  tell,"  Molly  said;  "there's 
something  about  it  I  can't  altogether  fathom." 

It  was  difficult  to  meet  the  puzzled,  inno- 
cent look  she  gave  me,  as  if  beseeching  me  to 
explain  what  there  could  be  in  her  situation 
that  wasn't  perfectly  as  it  should  be.  She 
took  up  her  sketch  and  added  a  little  dab  to 
it  and  put  it  down  again,  then  once  more 
gazed  inquiringly  at  me  with  the  expectant 
air  of  my  being  about  to  reassure  her,  growing 
more  and  more  uneasy  because  I  didn't. 
What  in  the  world  was  there  to  say  to  her? 
If  only  I  were  privileged  to  go  into  things 
freely  I  would  have  said  enough;  as  things 
were  I  was  too  genuinely  sorry  for  her  to 
pretend  anything. 

"This  is  the  last  time  you  are  coming 
here,  you  say?"  I  sadly,  feebly  brought  out. 

"Yes."     She  took  up  her  sketch  again. 

"Well,  I'm  glad,"  I  couldn't  repress 
saying. 

336 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

"Glad — glad?"  she  echoed,  appealingly. 

"For  your  sake,  I  mean." 

"Oh!"  She  uttered  it  and  looked  at  me, 
her  eyes  moving  up  and  down  as  regularly 
and  as  rapidly  as  the  tick  of  my  watch  that 
in  the  sudden  silence  and  tension  I  could  feel 
pulsate  through  my  being.  "What  is  it?" 
she  cried  out,  wildly.  "What — what  is  it 
that  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"How  can  you  ask  me,  Molly?"  I  said, 
exasperated  at  the  way  she  dared  corner  me. 

"Aren't  you  my  friend?"  she  demanded. 

"Always." 

"Then  tell  me  what  it  is  you  hint  at? 
Say  it  out,  say  everything  out.  Only  I 
can't  bear  these  ghastly  innuendoes!" 

"I've  nothing  to  say,"  I  told  her. 

She  turned  away  from  me.  She  let  the 
sketch  slip  from  her  lap  to  the  ground. 
Neither  of  us  moved. 

"You  do  know  something,"  she  droned  in 
tones  unaccustomedly  deep. 

"I  know  nothing,"  I  repeated. 

"What  have  you  heard,  then — is  it  some- 
thing people  say?  Oh,  I  can  stand  it! 
What  is  the  worst  they  can  think  about  me?" 
she  gasped  out  in  desperation. 

I  had  forgotten  she  was  acting  her  same 

337 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

old  part.  Blame  didn't  enter  into  my  cal- 
culations, either.  I  felt  as  we  have  to  feel 
when  somebody  we  love  is — whatever  the 
reason — hard  pressed. 

"Molly — I'm  your  friend,  your  faithful 
old  friend,"  I  began,  "and  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  what  /  think.  ..."  And  I  did.  I  don't 
know  what  futile  egotism  urged  me  on.  I 
don't  know  half  that  in  my  unreasoning  de- 
sire to  help  her  and  to  show  her  sympathy  I 
may  have  said.  My  lips  were  unsealed — I 
spoke  unguardedly.  I  suppose  I  must  have 
referred  pretty  boldly  to  the  last  year's 
"Syndicate."  I'm  sure  I  made  perfectly 
plain  what  I  thought  of  her  relations  with 
Larry  Nolen. 

She  sat  there — a  hand  pressed  close  to 
each  of  her  knees,  the  pupils  of  her  eyes 
raised  painfully  high  up  under  the  wide-open 
lids — facing  hard  forward.  I  knelt  beside 
her;  I  told  her  I  would  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  her — that  /  didn't,  no  matter  who 
else  did,  condemn  her.  .  .  .  She  heard  me  to 
the  bitter  end.  Then  without  a  word  she 
stood  gradually  up — I  thought  she  was 
going  to  fall,  but  I  felt  her  repugnance  to 
have  me  touch  her — and,  not  giving  me  a 
glance  or  appearing  to  remember  I  was 

338 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

there,  she  started  specter-like  toward  the 
house.  Aghast,  I  watched  her  go.  I  can 
see  her  now  as  if  she  didn't  know  the  ground 
was  under  her,  her  head  drawn  up  and  tilted 
slightly  backward.  .  .  . 

She  never  answered  either  of  the  letters  I 
sent  round  to  her  that  night,  nor  the  one  I 
wrote  afterward  in  which  I  pleaded  with  her 
only  to  hear  my  argument  for  forgiveness. 
Within  three  days  from  the  date  of  my 
awful  visit  I  heard  of  Maintenon  being  sud- 
denly closed  on  account  of  Mr.  Weston's 
illness;  the  occupants  had  gone  to  New  York, 
whence  they  were  to  sail  immediately  for 
parts  unknown.  I  was  left  high  and  dry  on 
the  shoals  of  my  folly.  Strangely  enough, 
Molly's  departure  didn't  cause  much  sensa- 
tion; but  then  it  was  so  late  in  the  season 
nothing  much  mattered  to  the  few  lingering 
members  of  the  summer  colony.  Mrs.  Pan- 
tell,  who  was,  as  it  happened,  the  only  person 
with  whom  I  had  ever  gone  at  all  deeply 
into  Molly's  affairs,  stayed  on;  but  much  as 
I  longed  to  tell  somebody  how  bitterly  I 
regretted  my  part  in  them,  I  was  reluctant 
to  confide  in  Mrs.  Pantell.  I  had  to  go  to 
her  finally;  I  couldn't  bear  not  to;  but  that 
was  after  I  found  out  the  truth.  I  suppose 

339 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

I  am  one  of  the  few  people  who  ever  did  find 
out  the  truth — who  ever  believed  it,  I  mean. 

When  I  did  I  let  Mrs.  Pantell  have  the 
full  blast  of  my  fury.  "You  ought  to  be 
ashamed — I — I  ought  to — to  be  beaten! 
The  whole  lot  of  us  should! — Every  single 
one  of  Molly's  friends  have  behaved  as 
swine.  ...  I  shall  publish  it  to  the  world — I 
shall  proclaim  it  from  the  housetops!" 

"What?"  scorned  Mrs.  Pantell,  tasting 
her  tea  and  dropping  another  lump  into  it. 

"How  wrong  we  were,  how  duped,  how 
infamous!" 

"'Duped'  is  good,"  she  reflected.  "If 
we're  duped  I  should  like  to  know  who 
duped  us.  And  the  only  fair  answer  to  that 
is — Molly.  Surely  Jim  didn't.  So,  out  with 
your  imaginings!  I'm  not  afraid  of  them." 

And  when  I  told  her  who  my  informant 
was — how  a  business  accident  had  enabled 
him  to  get  at  the  astounding  facts  I  had  to 
tell — and  when  to  anticipate  her  doubt  I 
emphasized  his  impeccable  reputation,  she 
languidly  reflected  again:  "I  never  took  any 
stock  in  him  or  his  admirers.  His  mother 
was  a  Hackett — the  Hacketts  are  all  queer." 
With  which  she  did  smilingly  ask  me  once 
more  to  "out  with  it." 

340 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

Our  conversation  began,  I  solemnly  re- 
lated to  Mrs.  Pantell,  by  my  saying  I  didn't 
see  how  anybody  like  (but  I  sha'n't  mention 
his  name;  I'm  determined  nevermore  to 
defame  anybody) — and  I  designated  a  callow 
little  man  of  forty  who  had  made  millions  in 
no  time — by  my  saying  I  didn't  see  how  such 
and  such  a  person  could,  for  example,  have 
done  it.  I  frankly  challenged  his  capacity, 
I  said,  and  was  certain  there  must  be  a  fluke 
in  it  somewhere. 

1 '  Why' ' — my  informant  retorted — * '  you 
apparently  don't  know  anything  at  all  about 
the  stock  market,  or  how  brainless  an  ac- 
complishment it  is  to  have  things  go  your 
way.  It  might  happen  to  any  one!  Take 
Jimmy  Weston's  case." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  There's  a  man,"  I  said,  "who  if 
King  Solomon's  mines  lay  bare  to  his  naked 
eye  couldn't  make  a  cent." 

"Where  did  you  think  his  money  came 
from?"  I  was  asked.  And  when,  a  good 
deal  stunned  by  the  question,  I  shamelessly 
confessed  what  I  thought,  "That's  all  an 
old  lady's  pipe-dream!"  was  the  rapid  ex- 
clamation, "Weston,  and  Weston  himself, 
with  all  his  asininity  and  his  imbecility  and 
his  unreliability,  made  every  penny  of  it ! ..." 

341 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

Excitedly,  I  watched  Mrs.  Pantell  shiver, 
opening  and  shutting  her  eyes  with  quick 
little  winks  like  telegraphic  distress  signals; 
but  I  went  inexorably  on.  .  .  . 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  I  flung  at  my  inform- 
ant— though  every  minute  the  light  was 
beginning  to  cut  in  on  me.  "How  could  he 
have  made  it?  When?"  I  cried  out,  in 
terror. 

"Weston  got  his  start" — I  could  hardly 
contain  myself  as  the  real  facts  began  to 
come — "he  got  his  start  about  a  year  and  a 
half,  nearly  two  years  ago,  and  from  then  on 
it  was  downhill  work  for  him  to  the  finish. 
I  never  knew  in  precisely  what  he  took  his 
first  plunge  or  how  he  found  the  money  for 
it,  but  my  son-in-law's  a  partner  of  the  firm 
where  he  kept  his  earliest  account — one  of 
many  others  that  he  presently  opened — and 
I  know  for  a  fact  that  great  hulks  of  money 
came  his  way.  You  see,  his  wife  was  abroad. 
...  It  leaked  out  through  a  little  stenographer 
in  another  office,  whose  cousin  used  to  sew 
for  Weston's  wife,  that  she — the  wife — used 
to  help  him  keep  his  head  when  things  got 
going  fastest.  But  that  was  later  on.  .  .  . 
She  came  back  from  Europe  to  have  an  eye 
on  him  last  summer  after  his  luck  was  in 

342 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

full  swing.  ...  I  think,"  dealt  out  my  inform- 
ant, "that  she  must  be  one  of  the  noblest 
women  alive.  Consider  how  she's  stuck 
by  him  and  stood  him  and  helped  him  and 
pulled  him  round — by  Jove! — to  a  winning 
game!" 

At  this  point  the  silent  mouthings  with 
which  Mrs.  Pantell  had  manifested  her  at- 
tention became  articulate.  "Why  didn't 
your — whatever  he  is — go  round  himself 
preaching  it?  Why  didn't  he  proclaim  it 
from  the  housetops!"  she  sneered. 

"I  asked  him  that,"  I  triumphantly  told 
her,  "and  he  said  he  didn't  know  any  of 
their  friends,  and  that  the  few  he  did  know 
simply  were  too  stupid  to  believe  him." 

"  I  wouldn't  believe  him,  either.  It's  stuff 
and  nonsense!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Pantell. 

"You're  determined,  then,  are  you,"  I 
retorted,  "to  remain  exactly  as  poisonous 
and  as  mendacious  and  as  low  as  we've  all 
been?  Well,  I'm  going  to  force  you  to 
change  your  mind."  She  sat  up  alarmedly 
and  made  a  sort  of  preparation  for  defense; 
it  was  like  some  fussy  precious  animal 
shaking  itself.  "The  truth,  now  we  have 
it,"  I  continued,  "fits  together  as  perfectly 
as  the  pieces  of  a  picture-puzzle.  I've  been 

23  343 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

to  a  lot  of  pains  getting  all  the  details  and 
you've  got  to  hear  them. . . . 

"Last  year  Molly  went  abroad.  Assume 
that  she  crossed  the  ocean  with  Mrs.  Bassett, 
at  her  invitation  and  all  that.  Soon  after- 
ward the  news  came  of  Jim's  coup.  .  .  . 
Molly  flew  to  some  little  back-water  of  a 
place — it  was  called  Grez-sur-Loing,  the 
spot  where  Stevenson  began  his  Inland 
Voyage — just  to  be  alone  and  quiet  and  to 
collect  her  poor  spent  nerves.  Jim  went 
over  and  stayed  there  with  her  a  week.  It 
was  then  he  persuaded  her — if  the  money 
continued  to  flow  in — to  take  the  Barney 
cottage  for  last  summer.  She  could  but 
humor  him — her  spoiled,  misjudged,  bad- 
mannered  pet  (so  she  may  have  reasoned  it 
out),  now  that  he  had  at  last  been  able  to 
place  the  long-wished-for  nuggets  at  her 
feet.  .  .  .  But  she  took  the  Barney  cottage 
only  on  condition  that  she  should  have  the 
biggest  (and  awfulest)  of  her  creditors — 
Mrs.  Bassett  and  Mrs.  Pearl-Livermore — to 
stay  with  her,  each  for  a  month.  And  she 
elegantly  rang  in  Mrs.  Leach  Robinson  at 
the  end.  ...  Of  course  she  had  been  so  in  the 
habit  (for  Jim's  sake)  of  bumming  on  people 
that  nobody  had  the  good  sense  to  imagine — 

344 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

say  nothing  of  their  believing — she  was  the 
real  one  and  only  hostess  of  the  *  little  old 
cottage  on  the  cliffs.'  I  don't  think  any- 
body except  the  telephone  company  knew 
Molly's  name  appeared  last  season  in  the 
directory;  people  were  so  used  to  her  being 
a  visitor  they  never  once  looked  for  it!  .  .  . 
Think  how  she  must  have  felt,  after  her  ship 
had  actually  come  in,  to  find  that  nobody 
believed  it  had!  And  you  know  Molly's 
reticences — her  theories  and  ideas  about 
distinguishing  between  people  who  have 
money  and  those  who  haven't — " 

"I  should  say  I  did,"  Mrs.  Pantell  jeered. 
"She  can  spot  the  difference  two  miles 
away!" 

I  ignored  her  and  went  on  with  my  story. 
"Molly  wouldn't,  she  just  couldn't,  be  the 
first  one  to  step  out  and  say:  'Why  don't 
you  speak  of  our  wonderful  good  luck? 
Why  aren't  you  glad?  Why  won't  some- 
body at  last  credit  us  with  having  some- 
thing  to  offer  in  exchange  for  all  we've  been 
given?  .  .  .'" 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  Jim  would  have 
hesitated  to  speak  out!"  observed  Mrs. 
Pantell,  slyly. 

"He   probably  did   speak  out — all   the 

345 


UNDER  THE  ROSE 

time!"  I  replied.  "But  who  in  the  world 
ever  bothered  to  listen  to  him?  He  had 
always  been  speaking  out  in  precisely  that 
way  all  his  life.  He  had  yelled  'wolf  too 
often  for  anybody  to  pay  any  attention,  now 
there  was  real  reason  and  need  of  it." 

"  Molly  has  had  the  word  '  wolf  on  her  own 
lips  a  good  many  times,"  Mrs.  Pantell  inter- 
jected. .  .  .  Irrelevantly  enough  it  made  me 
think  that,  despite  the  splendid  denouement 
of  Molly's  struggle,  success  couldn't  ever 
compensate  her  for  having  so  hideously 
wasted  the  best  years  of  her  life — "years 
that  the  locusts  have  eaten! ..."  I  must  have 
uttered  it  half  aloud,  for  Mrs.  Pantell  cried 
out  to  me,  "What — what  is  it  you  are 
mumbling  now?" 

"Molly  told  me  herself,"  I  resumed,  "how 
they  felt  about  last  summer.  You  see,  Jim 
sensed  your  'Syndicate'  story — oh,  it  was  all 
too  awful!  But  she,  having  tried  to  please 
him,  took  him  back  to  Europe — she  made 
him  go,  probably — lest  somehow  or  other 
they  should  lose  some  of  the  pile  Jim  had 
been  adding  to  all  the  while  (under  her  per- 
sistent tutelage).  .  .  .  Then,  you  see — poor 
Molly!  she  had  never  really  had  much  of 
a  whack  at  Europe.  As  it  was,  Jim  couldn't 

346 


HOW  THE  SHIP  CAME  IN 

be  kept  long  from  his  happy  hunting-ground; 
he  could  always  persuade  her  to  do  any- 
thing he  wanted — just  the  way,  I  suppose, 
he  could  persuade  her  in  the  first  place 
to  many  him.  So  he  brought  her  back 
again  this  year,  insistent  on  doing  the 
splurgiest  thing  he  could  think  of — which 
was  to  take  Maintenon.  But  this  year  he 
was  bound  nobody  should  have  any  doubts 
who  was  doing  it.  No  guests  should  deflect 
any  of  the  dear-bought  glamour  from  them 
again.  Molly  and  he  were  for  once  to  shine 
unmistakably  as  the  proprietors.  .  .  .  And 
you  know  how  their  plan  worked  out.  The 
moment  people  had  to  see  and  believe  Molly 
was  living  in  a  house  of  her  own  they  had 
also  to  look  for  some  slanderous  explana- 
tion— Jim's  riches  were  too  out  of  the  ques- 
tion even  to  enter  their  minds;  so  they 
cooked  up  the  Larry  Nolen  business.  How 
it  ever  started  I  can't  see — unless  it  was 
through  that  awful  old  ham  story  you  spread 
around." 

"It  wasn't  an  old  ham,"  corrected  Mrs. 
Pantell.  "I  told  you  it  was  perfectly  deli- 
cious." 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  for  having  told 
it!"  I  exclaimed. 

347 


UNDER   THE   ROSE 

"I  recall  how  it  diverted  you,"  she  tossed 
back. 

"But  I  am  ashamed — abjectly  and  wretch- 
edly sorry,  I  tell  you!  .  .  .  Think  how 
everybody  began,  on  the  strength  of  that 
scandal,  to  ask  Larry  everywhere  she  went! 
I  don't  reckon  she  ever  realized,  until  I  let 
it  out  so  cruelly  that  final  afternoon  I  last 
saw  her,  what  the  matter  could  be.  I'm 
sure  she  didn't." 

"  Didn't  she,  though !"  Mrs.  Pantell  echoed. 
"Shall  I  ever  forget  the  deceit  in  her  eyes 
when  she  asked  me  one  day  why  it  was 
people  always  placed  her  beside  'Mr.' 
Nolen?  .  .  .  That  was  her  method,  I  tell  you — 
always  to  be  brilliantly,  outrageously,  dis- 
armingly  ingenuous!" 

"You  don't  mean,"  I  almost  shouted, 
"that  you  don't  believe  all  I've  told 
you?" 

"I?  Of  course  not,  01  course  not — not  a 
syllable  of  what  you  say."  She  took  a 
visiting-card  up  from  the  tray  her  servant 
stood  holding  out  to  her.  "Show  him  in, 
Benjamin,"  she  commanded. 

"You'll  be  the  only  person  left  in  the 
world  who  doesn't  believe  everything/' 
I  threatened,  "by  the  time  I've  finished 

348 


with  my  explanations  of  your  part  in  this 
horrible  history!" 

"You  goose!"  she  murmured,  good-na- 
turedly as  her  new  guest  entered  the 
room. 


THE  END 


N 

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son  (To 


A     000  042  1 73     5 


